Sirena
by AnAppleOfDiscord
Summary: "Be wary of America, Tejas. Greater nations and men than you have been dashed on his rocks." In 1823, a cynical Texas accompanies Mexico on a trip to England and is caught off guard when the foppish America's mask slips. Maybe he's not the only one with a streak of mean in him. NO PAIRINGS. Brotherly bonding. Kith and Kin Series.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Teeny reference to Cantabrian mythology: La Sirenuca. Agustine I. Skull Creek Massacre. Wimpy peppering of Spanish words here and there for flavor. Harmar Campaign. Laudanum being used as medicine. Silverware as a means of boasting one's wealth.

 **AN:** Hellooo! I know, I know. I probably shouldn't have two fics going on at once and they'll probably fight for my attention/updating-love...but the idea bit me and wouldn't leave me alone. And I don't plan on this one being super long by any means. So here it is. XDDD This story is set in the same universe as my Kith and Kin Series but I don't think it's necessary to have read those before this. For newcomers, yes, there's my OC Texas in this and he's a major player in this piece; I totally understand if you're not into that and wish you happy reading elsewhere with more canon compliant fics. For those of you who are fond of him, from my other fics, here he is in his 1820's grumpiness. Enjoy! : DDD

 **Chapter 1: Cold Kindness**

* * *

Tejas tried to concentrate on the waves crashing against the white English cliffs they were nearing, on the sea lapping at the sides of the small ship, on the gulls crying and the sailors yelling and whistling and the sounds of sails catching the wind.

Anything to drown _her_ out.

Brown eyes stared hard at those cliffs.

Childish as it was, it made him think of the Legend of La Sirenuca.

Papi used to tell him that one whenever he was found playing around the limestone cliffs overhanging the Pecos River. Papi would cross his arms and frown down at Tejas like he was the authority on everything. How Tejas imagined a King would do, since he'd never seen one in real life despite all of Papi's promises that he'd take him to Madrid someday. And all the effort he'd put into pleasing Papi by memorizing lines to the throne was a waste of time and air. To think he'd had a shining romantic idea of them until well, until Agustine I...that was short-lived...and messy.

Kings didn't seem so fantastical after that. Not at all how they sounded in books or fairy tales. If anything they seemed laughably fallible and Tejas couldn't understand why anyone felt compelled by their "power" let alone his padre. There was probably something poetic in that—that Papi could have such power and prestige and strength and be...so stupid and easily led. Less like a bull and more like a steer.

Papi had warned in that grim, mystic tone he used whenever he felt like spooking his son that bad behavior could transform people.

It did, but not to anything near so magical as a sirena. No. You became an ass. Hee haw. That was all.

When he figured that out, the world seemed dimmer. It wasn't brimming with magic and adventure, the way his younger self had dreamed as he laid out in fields or taught his horse to jump fences. It was just chock full of sad ghosts and what if's instead.

"Idiota," Mejico sneered. "Of course Spain is not going to be there."

He shouldn't have asked.

She put her hand on her hip and scoffed. "Like he would want to see us."

He really should not have asked.

It was just….

After Boss...er...their ex-boss…Pa...Spain...was finished making a treaty with Mejico, he'd passed by him in the hall.

Yes, Tejas had helped her fight against him; mostly by doing boring things like supply running and keeping inventory since he'd been fourteen then and she wouldn't allow him to fight.

Said it would be a waste of a uniform.

It was a lost opportunity; he was certain he could've earned some glory and respect from his familia if they'd gotten to see him do well in battle.

He'd even practiced with his rifle and did bayonet charges and everything.

He wasn't even allowed to stay and watch when he came with deliveries of food and ammunition.

His hold on the ship's railing tightened.

He wasn't content being some forgotten patch of land! He could be great if he just had half a chance!

 _In the hallway, Spain paused for a moment. Light glittered off his impressive regalia and Tejas felt a hard stab of envy._

 _Eleven years spent supporting his sister and she didn't award him anything! Ungrateful harpía!_

 _Spain's expression was dark as he sized his ex-colony up. It took a lot for Tejas' legs not to quake. The man had always been intimidating with his tall, broad-shouldered form._

 _He swallowed down the habitual "Se_ _ñ_ _or" that crept up his throat on seeing the nation. Because Spain was a dangerous man to disrespect._

 _But he thought hard on all the ways Spain had angered and disappointed him through the centuries and he was able to hold the older nation's gaze and he didn't let his head dip down in a passive bow._

 _He wanted to look firm and brave and determined...but his glasses slipped down his nose a bit and he blinked hard as a tornado of butterflies stormed in his stomach._

 _The hard look Spain had been wearing changed to-to something else. It-it wasn't anger, even if Tejas couldn't exactly tell what it was._

 _Which made a dangerous bubble of hope rise in his chest because he knew he wasn't the man's favorite; would never be. That spot would always be Lovino's but...if Mejico had been displaced because of the war…_

 _Maybe Tejas had moved up?_

 _Spain moved toward him and set a heavy hand on his shoulder as he passed: "Tonio...Que tengas mucha suerta."_

 _Then he kept moving and the boy watched him disappear down the hall and out of his life._

The bitter words weren't a declaration of affection...but...but...maybe...

Mejico's eyes widened. "You think he misses _**you**_?"

She threw her head back and cackled.

Bruja.

Tejas' teeth gnashed and he was about to give her a well deserved shove—maybe if he did it hard and fast enough he'd knock her off her feet. He knew she was having trouble with the new fashionable shoes she'd purchased for the trip.

One hard push and she'd be on her ass and the ladylike act she was trying to put on would shatter when she started swearing at him.

And if the sailors milling around the deck thought that was brutish and unseemly of him to do, who cared? It wasn't like this trip really had anything to do with him at all.

She was just toting him around as a spoil of war...or maybe because she didn't trust leaving him behind. It seemed like every other dinner they shared she was berating him about being too friendly with the American settlers entering his territory. That he was making them feel too comfortable. They were allowed to be there by her grace and nothing more. And were they converting to Catholicism like she ordered them to?

He had a suspicion that her sudden interest in having him tag along(when she'd always hated it before) had something to do with him aging. She probably didn't think it mere coincidence that he gained a year after having such close contact with the settlers.

Mejico laughed hard enough to snort and he started to move forward when—

He was abruptly pushed aside by America.

He turned to hiss a well-deserved curse at him but ended up grabbing the back of the American's levita to make sure he didn't fall overboard as he retched into the water.

Gross as it all was, it did disrupt his black mood. It kind of relieved him to know someone was having a worse time on this voyage than him. After all, being in such close quarters with his hermana could dampen anyone's spirit.

Alfredo-no-Alfred, he corrected himself for the umpteenth time, was practically the Eighth Wonder of the World; unceasingly sea sick.

He'd come to appreciate it. His near-constant vomiting acted like a talisman that warded Mejico away.

Why, it was working right now. Her face had already turned green, she was deliberately not looking in their direction, and was edging away.

When America recovered somewhat, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and patted at his mouth. "Terribly sorry, Texas. You both were having a moment. Horrible of me to interrupt. Do hope you'll forgive-"

He nodded blankly. America talked too fast for him to translate everything. And he knew from experience that if he told him to repeat himself, he'd go just as fast and maybe throw in another line or two.

Talking with America was an exercise in patience. He smiled too much. He talked too much. He gestured far too much. He was loud and oafish and-

Tejas still couldn't forgive him for forgetting him!

Yes, he'd seen up close the aftermath of the grisly head shot the American had taken on account of the War of 1812 and could understand why his memory of the Texan personification leaked out. But it hurt his pride to be forgotten so easily. Especially given how warmly the American had endorsed him when he'd learned of Tejas' plans for a revolution of his own in 1812.

He'd pretty much showed up at Tejas' front door with a small escort of soldiers just to say hello. They were all dressed in red, white, and blue. Tejas had stared blankly at the pristine white stallions and the way America's flag waved gracefully with the wind's soft caresses.

His blue eyes were bright and his smile infectious as he took Tejas' smaller hand and shook it. Tejas had been completely overwhelmed by the spectacle. The blond was taller, broader, stronger, handsomer, and older looking than him...and yet the way he went on...he acted like they had so much in common. He'd even said that he felt like they were "friends already."

Which Tejas had thought was too much even then, but losing it all made him feel worse.

It was a stupid way to feel.

Hell for all he knew, Alfred's well wishes might've even been bad luck considering how well the American fared in his own war.

Maybe it was morbid interest that spurred him to be the one meeting with America for his and Mejico's business deals from then on. But he knew America's war was far from a glorious victory and he just...wanted to see how he handled it.

He'd expected the nation to brood as he licked his wounds and for them to swap stories. He could speak of Medina. Alfred could lament his capitol. They could curse their awful families. But once the blond got his looks back he went back to being as careless as a summer day.

Which was...irritating.

When Tejas was certain the American was steady on his feet and he wouldn't be lost at sea, he went down to ready his belongings.

When he returned to the deck, the harbor was in view.

The lurch the ship made as it came to port got him grinning. The whoosh of his stomach was the feeling of adventure!

He turned to comment on it to America but the man was bent over the side once more—two sailors were holding his arms to make sure he wouldn't fall.

The passengers disembarked soon after. It made him smug to wave away offers of help from their servants and the British sailors as he moved his and his sister's luggage. He was tall and strong for fifteen and proud of it. It hardly took any effort at all!

If only Azura could be grateful but no! His sister's eyes were dark as she watched him. After years of her taunting him for being the weakling of their household, he'd thought there'd be some acknowledgement of his newfound strength.

But she was silent. It was almost worse than being teased.

He walked down the gangplank and waited for their advisers and servants to join.

They'd had to really narrow down their selection on who was to accompany them. Mejico was determined for them to travel in style, so they each had a personal servant; Camellia for her, Philippe for him. But they couldn't afford to bring all of her advisers let alone even one of his. And the ones she chose...ugh, bossy, pompous bores. They were so interchangeable to him, he kept switching their names by accident. Much to everyone's annoyance. He found it easier to just nod at the one nearest him and to start talking.

His sister elbowed him out of his thoughts and they thanked Captain Taylor, a coarse gray bearded man with a tanned face and eyes so light they were unnerving.

The man was sure to kiss her hand for decorum's sake but seemed rather bored with her. He quickly excused himself with a hasty, "Forgive me, I must assist 'The Duchess.'"

Both felt rather indignant at the slight. Because they knew damn well that the merchant ship they could afford passage on was NOT carrying royalty.

He'd been warned that they wouldn't command the same level of respect here as they did at home, but he wasn't quite prepared to be faced it with so blatantly.

However, his rancor didn't last when he realized who the "Duchess" was.

The captain murmured consoling words as he carried Alfred off the ship like a bride.

"I'm dying!" Alfred moaned pitifully.

"No," The man refuted calmly.

"I'm dying!"

"No."

"I died. It's over."

The captain's weathered face creased with barely restrained mirth. "I guarantee you are very much alive, sir. I cannot say that you _braved_ the Atlantic. But you did cross it successfully once more."

A sailor set down a large, battered trunk and the captain carefully laid Alfred down on it.

The American treated the moment like a deathbed scene.

"I'll...see to it that your many kindnesses...to me...are remembered."

Captain Taylor clasped Alfred's hand and patted it goodnaturedly. He called over his shoulder, "Mr. Parry?"

"Sir?"

"I'll give you a shilling if you see to it that Lieutenant Kirk-"

The blond's head whipped around to deliver a glare.

"Forgive me, Jones. Jones." He sighed and repeated it a third time. "Jones. I shall remember, Alfred. Be patient with me. That Lieutenant Jones makes it to the edge of town unmolested. I doubt any shall look upon him...and his...dated wardrobe as prey, but one can never be too careful given his current condition."

Which was seasick as a dog. Yeah, it'd be easy to roll him without much effort. If he had anything.

"I have full faith his land legs will return by the time you reach the trees."

Tejas scrutinized Alfred's clothing and shook his head. Si, it was certainly something to behold. Almost twenty years too old and that ratty scarf around his neck. It was a constant source of amusement for Mejico, who'd gone to great lengths to procure fashionable clothing for them.

Tejas had to say, he liked the way the pantalones reached all the way down to his feet now. And given how cold it was here. He shivered as a gust blew by.

The cut-away coat was...restricting and the colors he and his sister were wearing were...rather dark and gloomy but...looking around at what others were swathed in. She'd known what to buy to help them fit in.

A sound strategy because a second glance revealed that they already stood out more than was comfortable with their darker coloring.

Everyone here was so pale, you'd think the sun never showed her face.

"So then, Lieutenant Jones, was it?" Parry nodded as he slung one of the young man's arms over his shoulder and helped hoist him up into a standing position. "If you don't mind my asking, what business has you sailing to this side of the world?"

"Business? You-" Alfred held his handkerchief to his mouth for a moment. "You...you don't think I sail for pleasure? O-or for my health?"

Quite a few sailors nearby snickered at that and Mr. Parry had a good laugh.

Brown eyes watched the two begin their journey with Alfred dragging his trunk alongside.

Jones.

Tejas frowned. He still didn't understand it; why the nation went and changed his human surname. When Kirkland was well-known and established in the marketplace.

It hadn't even occurred to Tejas to change his name now that Spain was out of their lives and Mejico hadn't mentioned it either.

Carriedo had a certain weight of respectability. Many did trade with him out of deference for his father.

When America and Parry had hobbled out of sight, the captain called another sailor forward. He withdrew an envelope from his coat. "See to it that this is delivered and at once. He'll want to know."

Tejas squinted and made out _A. Kirkland._

He felt a stab of envy, so Alfred's padre still watched over him?

Lucky bastard.

* * *

While Tejas and Mejico checked into a small inn, Philippe and Alejandro (or was it Fernando?) arranged for a stagecoach to bear them from Liverpool to London. Supposedly, the company advertised that it could get them there in three days! The catch being that they had to leave at an ungodly hour.

It'd be a lie to say he even remembered the morning the coach ride began. It was all thanks to Philippe that he was up and dressed at all.

He came to when they were out of town and the ride became rougher. His jaw a bit when he looked out the window and saw...America.

He'd assumed a horse had been waiting for him at the edge of town. That his father's letter was a bid to make haste and have one provided for him. But...it appeared America was taking the same route as them...just walking.

The blonde tipped his cocked hat as they began to overtake him.

They were surprised when the driver slowed down.

Mejico was furious and rapped her knuckles and demanded to know what he was doing. She'd paid dearly for swift service! But the driver paid no heed.

Tejas eased his window open.

"How de yeh fare there, Master Alfred?" The driver tipped his hat at America in recognition.

"Well enough. And how do you do?" The blond smiled.

The man said something about not expecting America so soon. That they hadn't received word else they'd have sent someone to the dock for him.

The nation smiled and waved his apology off. "I fear I'm walking this time."

The man's voice leapt an octave. "W-walking?! To London?! From here? Sir! Reconsider! There are highwaymen! Bandits! Beasts!"

America laughed. "I can only hope! It should be a very boring week for me if there aren't."

The nation noticed Tejas staring at him through the window and waved.

Flabbergasted by the flippant response, the driver sat back and shook his head. "Tempting fate like that, sir?!"

Alfred laughed again. "If I am accosted, they shall be sorely disappointed. They'll be all the poorer for the waste of their time."

"Sir!" He scolded.

"Mayhaps I'll turn the tables and be the one who comes out the richer in such a confrontation?"

It took Tejas a moment but when he realized that Alfred was joking about _being_ the one doing the robbing to a robber—he burst out laughing and slapped his knee. He felt his sister glare on him.

Alfred heard him and smiled brighter—catching his eye.

"Sir!?" The man asked aghast.

Brown eyes met blue and he nodded his support to the American's plan. The blond boy broke down into helpless giggles and gave a clownish bow to him.

The driver sighed. "God keep you safe, sir. I'll let them know up ahead to expect you. A-and they can send word on to-"

"You needn't trouble yourself."

The man nodded and flicked his reins as he muttered lowly. "If I want to keep my neck and shoulders together, I will. Twit."

And they continued.

It felt weird leaving him there, watching his bright grin fade to a bland polite smile. Without the cheerful sounds of joking, he looked hauntingly out of place in that dark cloak from the 1790s. Less like an actor in costume and more like a ghost.

Or maybe it was that he was so untroubled by the world passing him by, that he reminded Tejas of a ghost.

Settling back down into a sour mood, Tejas brooded over how the American just smiled and waved. Like Tejas was part of some silly parade sent to amuse him.

He flushed as he realized after the fact that he'd half hoped to catch some glimmer of resentment in the other's face; that they were riding in style and he was hoofing it. He didn't know why but ever since he'd met the nation, he'd been hunting for it. Some spark of jealousy or-or something!

He was weirdly affable and clueless. He couldn't even tell that Tejas didn't actually like him. He was entertaining alright, but as clever as a clay brick most of the time. Sometimes he just...was struck with brilliance like earlier. His mouth, which was always at a gallop, let loose something of shining merit. Like lightning striking the top of a church by chance.

Which made it seem even more like it was simply dumb luck that America had become a sovereign nation.

And that just infuriated Tejas; luck was the one thing he didn't seem to have.

* * *

Tejas was careful not to slouch in the blond man's presence.

So...this was the British Empire? The one who was the first to acknowledge Mexico's Independence from Spain?

Who'd defeated Papi's armada...and was his sworn rival and enemy in their quest to conquer the New World?

The pressure of which led Papi to drink so much when he wanted an escape that Tejas sometimes wondered if he knew what the man was like sober.

England was shorter and thinner than Tejas expected. It was hard to believe his padre would struggle to overcome this man. He felt...disappointed...by both of them.

Their rivalry had seemed like an epic before...and now it...felt like gossip through an open window in the kitchen.

England bent over Mejico's hand to deliver a kiss. "Senora Carriedo, it is my pleasure to welcome you here."

She preened at the attention. "Thank you Admiral, my brother and I are honored to be your guests for this time."

Admiral.

Ad-mir-al.

Tejas begrudgingly admired how well she'd pronounced that word. It was a mouthful of foreign syllables. Though, he'd heard her practicing them over the trip to her hand mirror and she'd even hired an English speaking tutor a few months ago when she'd been planning the trip.

She still rolled the 'r' a bit, but the Englishman didn't seem to mind.

Tejas knew his own English was far from perfect but he had made a point to meet with the American settlers in his land and most of them spoke only in English or if they knew extra languages it was tribal speak for trading purposes. He was pretty damn sure his 'r' was better than hers though. _He_ could say 'America' and not 'Amerrrica,' the way she did whenever they met with their fellow nation for business.

Admiral Kirkland pulled out a silver pocket watch, stared out at the horizon, nodded and slipped it away.

He made a motion to a man leaning against a pillar. The orange haired man took his spot on the front steps and Tejas realized he'd witnessed a rotation of sorts. They must've been expecting another guest.

It took him a moment to realize it was probably America. Though, the Yankee would have to run faster than a charging bull for days to make it there by nightfall.

England gave them a tour of Buckingham Palace and he came to the unhappy understanding by the first room that they were poor. Dirt poor in comparison.

While they were being shown a magnificent intricate garden because England wanted to show them quickly before the rain came and they were confined indoors (he knew they desperately needed fresh air after a ship and carriage ride), Tejas noticed another man crossing the lawn in the distance. He had such dark red hair, it was hard not to stare at him.

A servant ran across to meet with him and offered a coat. Red nodded at whatever the servant was saying and let him help fasten the garment on. Then he turned on his heel and left.

* * *

America tried to concentrate on the few things that had gone well.

He'd survived the voyage. One.

He'd gotten a fair price on bread and meat and if he allotted it right, it should last him the journey...if it didn't drown in his leaking trunk. Two-ish.

He looked up and sighed as more icy rain fell and he adjusted his soaked hat.

Now a third. A third. Hmm. Well, the downpour was hiding the fact that his nose was running.

A whinny in the distance confirmed that it'd be a good thing when he recognized the rider as his uncle.

Scotland looked more irritable than usual as he urged his horse and another one onward.

He untied the second horse's reins from his saddle and nearly hit Alfred in the face with them as he came near.

"Yeh look terrible," He commented as Alfred secured his trunk. "The hell are you wearing? Did you dig one of your leaders up for his drawers?"

"..." When Alfred didn't answer he tried a new angle.

"Yeh were gonnae walk the whole way?" He demanded once Alfred was mounted.

"..."

He reached over and gave a hard punch to Alfred's arm. "Idgit."

"...I didn't meet with any highwaymen," Alfred murmured as he rubbed the smarting spot.

He didn't know if he was trying to reassure Alistair or comment on his own disappointment.

"Why do yeh think I'm runnin' so late, laddie?" A thick red eyebrow rose up.

Blue eyes went wide. It was like his uncle was a magnet for glory. His cheeks puffed; he was hogging it all! If it could've been him instead, it would've solved Alfred's conversation conundrum! It would have provided him a topic that could've lasted him several weeks, easily. Especially if he embellished it. The men would've applauded his strength, the women would've touched his arm and called him a "poor dear" as they fanned themselves. He'd have been sought out specifically to talk about it and nothing else and now! Now?! Now, he was doomed back into topics he was well-versed in: namely agriculture. And there just wasn't a way to speak of it at parties and have everyone's admiration and interest. He'd tried. Desperately. Since the 1770s. It wasn't going to happen. Though Austria was usually a good sport with him and heard him out even though it seemed to require more wine to do so and he'd clean his glasses at least eight times before America was done.

Scotland flicked him hard in the forehead. "No daydreaming. Get a move on."

Even without thieves to watch for, it was still two hard days of riding before the palace came into view and if Alistair hadn't been in a sociable mood when he'd found him...he certainly wasn't now. Not that Alfred had been much better.

Even still, he wished he could've gone with him as he took the horses to the stables, but the man wouldn't hear of it.

" _Yeh've been in that storm for days. You're chilled. I seen corpses with more color in their cheeks. Get inside. Now!"_

True, he was numb with cold and just the warmth of being indoors was making his skin tingle as his body recovered but...anything would've been preferable to this. Even losing a finger...or ten.

"You're making a puddle." England observed from the top of the staircase.

Looking down on him…always looking down.

Alfred's face moved into an easy smile and he greeted the Empire—whipping his hat off with a flourish and a clumsy bow that sent even more water everywhere.

The crowd loved it when he did things like that. It usually sent them into peals of laughter. If there was one thing he'd learned from his time in the circus it was how beautifully mechanical such movements were. Drama, comedy, thrills, they all depended on performing certain movements; whether it was one foot in front of the other on a wire, or one windmilling arm that caught another perfectly in the face, or a back flip made at a fatal height.

It wasn't even limited to performance; why the gears of a pocket watch, the stitching of a repaired seam, the muscles in a face during a dull conversation...

It was all a matter of small movements that with time and practice, could be perfected.

With enough practice, the rough became smooth and the uncomfortable became bearable. Though there was a fine line between seeming natural and being rehearsed. And he seemed to lean on it at times; his politicians had warned him that they feared he was 'losing his sincerity.'

Well, considering how much he'd lost and in such short time, it was more of a surprise that 'sincerity' wasn't already in that pile to begin with.

The Briton descended the stairs, footsteps ringing with authority. The fine pair of boots came to the edge of the puddle and harsh eyebrows were furrowed together in disapproval.

Alfred didn't move at all.

Not recoiling was another learned talent. A crowd loved to lean in as near as possible to performers who charmed them. Regardless if they were eating, drinking, or smoking. You learned to ignore them. You learned to ignore a lot of things.

"You're soaked through. Did your luggage fare any better?" England unnecessarily lifted the trunk and they both heard water slosh in it. "Oh dear." He murmured with false empathy. "I fear not. I imagine all of your things will need to be aired out. Should've purchased a better sealed trunk. I can recommend several shops, if you like."

He was certain he could. Shops that would have the best of the best. Ones he couldn't hope to buy anything from and then England would make that horrible "Oh" sound he made whenever America's less than prosperous coin purse was paraded before him. And then he'd sigh and say he supposed that he could make a gift of the item. Charity was the proper "Christian" way to respond in such circumstances.

England delighted in embarrassing him. The best way to deal with it was robbing him of the satisfaction by feigning ignorance of the slight.

"I imagine airing them shall work. Is there a clothesline and a fireplace I can make use of?" He looked pointedly at the large one warming the entry way.

Arthur immediately balked at the mere idea of Alfred's underthings drying there for all to see and Alfred not having a whit of modesty about it.

And then his lip curled. The way it always did when Alfred committed some vulgar, common-man sin.

"Of course you _may_ not," He answered coldly once he composed himself. He made sure to stress the "may" because "can" was an improper choice of phrase and Alfred felt his cheeks warm in spite of himself. Arthur then called a servant over and instructed him to take Alfred's trunk downstairs to be dealt with...

Downstairs...where peasant things belonged. Maybe he ought to follow and be banished there as well.

* * *

Dinner was every bit as excruciating as America feared; so many serious faces and such immaculate suits. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that at least he wasn't alone. Because yes, if he'd been back in Virginia right now he'd be eating at an empty table in an empty house marking time through lengthening shadows and rotting floorboards.

He tried to prevent a frown. But at least there wasn't rules there. Here there was a ridiculous amount of etiquette. He'd already used the wrong silverware twice, much to Canada's mean spirited amusement. He smirked each time it was pointed out. He couldn't figure out why all the silverware would be out, if some of it was to be used and the rest of it not.

When he'd muttered as much, Reilley gave him a sad slow nod and told him he'd explain it some time.

Mathieu had snickered softly. Humph. So his brother was still angry with him over 1812 and his disastrous military campaign northward. Whatever.

It was just...unfathomable to him that he didn't want to join America and be free. That he'd want to remain under the crown's thumb.

Violet eyes narrowed at him. His brother was trying to punish him. Usually, his northern sibling made sure to welcome him warmly whenever they saw each other on trade missions regardless of how hostile the terms between America and England were.

The lack of affection should've bothered him. But didn't. Not when he could still vividly remember smoke and flames and charred skin. No, he wasn't feeling too tender towards him either. Hell, he wasn't feeling much at all as of late. It was like ice was creeping into his veins.

He'd seen that happen in pavement. Lines and cracks filled with ice in the winter seasons. They'd crack and widen and in the coming years fill with more ice.

Ever since the war had ended...something in him had...changed...

Like a door deep inside him that had always been open...was finally closed and locked.

It meant he was secure. Safe. Right?

"You're going to seek out business ventures. In that?" Arthur took a deep sip of wine.

Smile. Smile. Smile. It'll get easier. "Yes. That is my plan." He scooped up a small cut of meat and tried to enjoy how the seasoning transformed it from the bland fare he had back in his own lands.

"How brave." Arthur arched an eyebrow. His lips twitched with a smile of poorly disguised, ill humored pity.

There was a cloud of...something in his chest that grew heavier as the conversation plodded along.

Mexico and Texas seemed fairly at ease and their advisers were already making connections with people of import at the absurdly long, expensive table.

That was a wise thing to do. What he should've been doing but…

He could only breathe freely when piercing green eyes moved off him and England began asking Mexico about the carriage ride over. He'd thought the prices were very economical. Couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't make use of them and the security they afforded travelers.

Winter winds rattled the windows and rain pelted the glass.

He tried to think of something good that's happened since he's arrived. Something that will make it worthwhile, no matter how small.

But it was like trying to catch light with his fingers. It reminded him of his childhood—romping through the fields trying to find rainbows after every storm...like an idiot. To his own chagrin, he was still like that...only now there was no one to call him in anymore.

He smiled at one small crack in the plaster of the wall across from him and decided that the flaw in the opulent room must be it.

* * *

Alfred pulled up his stocking. Aware that only the servants seemed to still be wearing them and that he was almost hopelessly outdated in his attire. Well, at least he wasn't wearing a powdered wig.

He sighed; his finances were still a mess from when he'd been erroneously written off as killed while serving. Uncle Alistair had helped him straighten out the worst of it. But then there were back taxes due on properties since he 'wasn't dead after all' and Alfred just couldn't afford to be frivolous and spend lavishly on clothes.

This day should've been better than the last but it wasn't. Even though he'd gotten to sleep in a bed, have breakfast, and was out of the bitter November chill. It should have been more than enough, really, when you thought of it that way.

But…

As Alfred leaned against a corner and watched Arthur with the latest gems of his Empire's crown mixed in with his older colonies too…

They were a gaggle of silk, muslin, satin, cotton, and class. Sparkling and refined, they embodied England's desires for them so effortlessly, that they all seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces. Like a well-composed painting or poem.

Green eyes were bright and he smiled and leaned over at times to answer children's questions. He straightened collars and bows and his fingers lingered. He was gentle and considerate and handled them carefully.

It was a complicated feeling watching someone else's happiness unfurl.

He couldn't call it resentment because...he didn't begrudge them for it. He'd seen and was continuing to see that there were plenty of ugly things in the world; the Skull Creek Massacre being just one from earlier in the year.

So seeing this moment of familial tenderness was a good thing. A beautiful thing.

But he did acknowledge that it was a thing he wasn't going to have.

He'd made choices. Ranked his priorities. And he let that one go.

He stared down at his feet and the scuffs on the inner sides of his shoes.

People failed in their duties when they got greedy. When they overreached.

Still, when poor renditions from clumsy clarinets were given glowing praise, Alfred left for the garden.

It was still raining but…

He laid down on the stone bench and soaked in the silence.

He remembered a quiet moment like this after Heller's Corner as he sank into the marshy ground beside his fallen men and the world fell away.

"You're going to catch your death of a chill. Or drown."

Alfred held in his sigh and opened his eyes to see Arthur frowning down at him, with his arms crossed.

"Why ever are you out here in this dreadful weather?"

"The quiet." He shrugged.

The eyebrows went up in surprise, "Headache?"

He looked away. "No."

With an iron grip on his upper arm, Arthur forced him inside and he was made to take a bitter drought that burned his throat. He coughed hard.

"Just a little laudanum and you'll be well. It shall help your headache," England replied matter of fact as he set the bottle back into an elegant china hutch. "Relieves all sorts of aches."

If it didn't kill him with its awful taste first!

"If you require more, have a servant fetch it. If they ask, say you have my permission."

He was then led into another parlor with a crackling fire and quilts. It was a generous gesture. But when he tried to thank the man for tending him—

"Don't be daft, I'm your host. It will reflect poorly on me for one of my guests to fall ill in my care. Even if it is the result of his own idiocy."

It killed his gratitude stone dead.

Cold kindness was perhaps the worst kind...at least outright cruelty was honest.

"I see. Your commitment is admirable. Particularly as I don't make it easy, I imagine?"

"Indeed." He nodded and swept out of the room. "Dinner will be in the same hall. I trust you can find your way when it's time? Or ask a servant, if you can't? It's a bother if I have to go out of my way searching for you." He paused by the door as he awaited an answer.

"I do hate being a bother." Blue eyes were sharp as he smiled sweetly over his shoulder.

Arthur took that as an understanding and left.

Alfred turned back to study the intricately designed mantle and tried to lose himself in the craftsmanship and the tiny hairline cracks at certain corners.

Alfred had lived long enough to watch trees and roofs gather icicles in cold seasons many times. It was new however, to feel like he was collecting some in his soul.

He leaned back into the plushly cushioned chair that Arthur had moved near the fire for him and let the glow warm his body.

It was a shame it couldn't reach further in.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DD


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Shakespeare's _The Comedy of Errors_ : " _A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind. Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind._ " Or Washington Irving's _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). More wimpy Spanish peppering because I'm a noob. King George IV. Brief references to Napoleonic Wars, the Greek's War for Independence. Crude Shakespearean joke. Cihuateteo. The "American Experiment." How gentlemen spent their time playing cards. Stick and hoop for the win! Reilley is ALL of Ireland : D Bare-knuckle boxing 1700-early 1800s rules. aka kicks and throws and wrestling are allowed. Some fluff...by my standards XD

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I'm stoked to see how many people are on-board with this and excited. Here's another chap and now I've really, really, REALLY got to go work on Gram's next chap (I'm about halfway done with it at the moment) but this kept battering its wings against my brain. Enjoy! XD

 **Chapter 2: Silence Was Sin**

* * *

Tejas was used to dust, mud, muck, and swamp but London was a new kind of dirty. Columns of smoke darkened the sky and made a haze over the city.

Despite the gloom, England had insisted it was a clear day and a good opportunity for his guests to tour the area.

There wasn't room enough in the first carriage with Mejico, England, and his youngest wards. Not that he would've ridden with them even if there had been. Still, he was amused as he walked away; it was testament to Mejico's great desire for a strong alliance with England that she wasn't reacting when her fine dress was touched with grubby little colony hands.

His ears echoed with shrieks from years long ago when a mud splattered toddler-aged Tejas had hugged her legs sure that alligators were after him and only she (the sharpest mouth he knew) could fend them off.

The second carriage held Mathieu and three older men. One of whom was the red-haired man from the other day. He frowned at him and said it was full up.

The third carriage brimmed with old mortal men. If he rode with them he'd likely hear cautionary tales of being a young man in the city and blahblahblah.

Philippe hovered half a step back from his elbow. The middle aged servant had that calm expression that signalled he was resigned to whatever fate Tejas chose.

And he surprised them both by walking with Alfred. Simple, stupid Alfred who was fingering a flower that he'd placed in the buttonhole of his coat.

When Alfred realized he had company along the footpath, he put away the book he'd been reading. Judging by the way the lines were printed on the pages Tejas had spied, it was poetry.

Tch.

He shouldn't have asked about it, but did.

Alfred was irritating in the way he chattered nonsensically from one topic to the next hopping around like a drunk frog—first from poetry and then to carpentry and over to trade and textile factories.

There was little to string together how his train of thought led him about. But...he was generous with the treats he'd pilfered from the kitchen and he was as kind to Philippe as he was to Tejas and he couldn't tell if that was irritating or admirable.

The blond smiled inanely as he divvied them up. "Quite lucky when I went in this morn, all my favorites."

Which was apparently, pastries and cakes with gooey fillings of apple and cherry.

He shared so freely that it made Tejas feel a little guilty for wishing that Alfred had gotten some actual food: meat and cheese. Or a drink: all the dry crusts were making him thirsty.

But...

He could've kept his spoils a secret and wandered off on his own or given a paltry amount out of grudging charity and made them feel too ashamed to ask for more (like Mejico often did when he'd been small and he wanted to try something she was eating).

They made a visit to a tavern for cheap ale where he somewhat reluctantly paid for them all because he felt Philippe's dark eyes on him. Alfred did provide him with food...even if it was pilfered from someone else's pantry.

He probably shouldn't have treated him though because Alfred was overly grateful and Tejas was sure from the way he started talking even more and faster that he'd mistaken the act or repayment as a desire to kindle friendship.

A loud whistle made him jump and when he complained about the noise of factories, America replied: "It is the sound of prosperous industry."

Prosperous?

When the streets were festering with urchins and beggars?

He wasn't a stranger to poverty. He'd seen plenty of starving farmers and urchin children and ragged slaves. But there was something about London and its narrow streets that halved the distance and made them seem closer. You'd try and look away from one and find yourself starting squarely at another.

The smell of unwashed bodies, and whiskey breath, and soot, and urine, and-

He watched Alfred breathe in the flower on his coat; so that was what it was for. Clever.

This was a glamorous city? A mecca of trade?

It was almost strangely crowded and loud with sounds of gruff voices selling wares and then there were the creaks, groans, and clods of wheels and horses and feet.

And the music he heard always sounded sad, no cheerful trumpets or warm guitars...

Bodies bustled everywhere—pressing and pushing and shouldering by.

He had to discreetly check himself several times to ensure he wasn't a victim of pickpockets.

It all pressed in on him.

He was used to cattle and horses and open spaces. The smells of cud and dung and sweat and straw. He missed warm ground underfoot that warmed the soles of his boots and the cool shade of swamp willows.

Alfred tugged him along through shops, rising the hopes of owners and then dashing them as they sped away without purchasing anything.

They were wandering into seedier streets where Tejas couldn't help but notice women with lower and lower cut dresses and ample bosoms near to tumbling out.

Philippe swatted the back of his head and the two had some sharp words for each other.

Tejas wasn't approaching them! Just looking! Besides, it was America's fault; he led them there!

He turned to shift the blame to America and found him watching a game of stick and hoop.

One barefooted boy noticed his interest and waved and he waved back. The boy then beckoned them over.

America grabbed Tejas' elbow. "Can you play?"

His mouth twitched into a sharp frown; of course he knew how to play. Countless summers of his youth were spent with children in the plaza chasing the stupid toy but...but...he was a man now. There were expectations!

"R-rather childish, don't you think?"

Alfred leaned back, his eyes flitted over Tejas' face, and then he shrugged a shoulder. "Well...if you think you'll lose, and it would embarrass you. We do not have to join."

¡Maldita sea!

Blue eyes twinkled.

Brown eyes glared. "...I am not going to lose." They were all half his height and would be easy to outrun! Plus, if Alfred was taller than him it was by a hair.

They played until the children were exhausted and sat to the side watching them battle each other until dusk approached and mothers and elder sisters came to fetch them.

And when the toy was taken home as the last boy left, they found themselves kicking an empty glass bottle back and forth. The trick was to get it to roll straight without having it simply spin in place.

They had a lamplighter curse them when they raced by and nearly tripped him. Philippe followed them leisurely—lighting a cigarette and sometimes yelling to Tejas to be wary of oncoming horses.

England didn't look terribly impressed with any of them as his carriage pulled alongside their company.

Tejas became uncomfortably aware of how sloppy he looked. His untucked shirt, his hat squashed under his arm, his hair which was a complete mess...

America tipped his old cocked hat with such sauciness, he felt a stab of envy because he didn't care he was sweat-soaked and filthy. If only Tejas could have that sort of indifference!

England's disapproval was made evident with his next course of action. And it should've been an indignity that he was forced to sit up top on the luggage rack, a place for footmen, but...Alfred was beside him.

And the way he laughed with half-swallowed giggles, like he knew he shouldn't be laughing but could not help himself, as the coach bounced on dips in the road got Texas to talking on how it reminded him of horses jumping.

That moment when your stomach was in the air and anything can happen and it isn't quite fear but excitement because...anything can happen.

And though he couldn't have said it perfectly even if they'd been speaking in Spanish; it was a sharp needle in his heart. He was someone who'd grown up in a way where life was a wheel of banality and he was doomed to being unpolished and ordinary; it was all he'd ever known or would know. But just thinking it could change…

Even if it was just for a moment...

That something could knock him off that path...gave him such a feeling…

He stuttered through the thought equal parts desperate and angry and fearful. Because it could be used against him and he shouldn't speak of it all and damn Alfred's constant chatter. It was like a disease and had infected him and he was a leaking well..

Alfred stared out into the distance. "Aye, I know it. It's that small hope worth rising for in the morning."

Tejas blinked—not expecting the weight of that simple sentence. Or the sorrow in it...or the elegance. Maybe it was just lightning striking his intellect.

Or maybe...he understood that poetry book in his pocket in a way Tejas couldn't. And maybe...Tejas ought to have him explain one line for line. A short one. See who said the words better; the page or the man beside him. He could say it was a matter of translation...and then he'd know.

Philippe, who was seated lower than either of them and closer to the wheels, was watching them both steadily.

He understood only a little bit of English but he caught Tejas' eye and raised his eyebrows before nodding at the American.

He usually did that when Mejico or Spain was planning some event and wanted to give him the opportunity to invite a guest for himself. Because Tejas wasn't the best when it came to remembering such things.

It was easily done because neither of his relatives bothered themselves over whether he was entertained. Didn't really trouble themselves over what he did at parties so long as he wasn't underfoot.

Tejas ignored it. Just because they'd spent a day in each other's company and it was...not...terrible...didn't mean they were bosom friends!

Tejas got them to talking more on horsemanship. And he was surprised that someone like America who seemed like such an ink loving, poetry person could enjoy something so vigorous as breaking in horses.

* * *

Alfred chewed at the inside of his cheek to try and prevent a nasty smile.

Texas had just confided in him that he'd come to the conclusion that Canada, their mutual neighbor to the north, was boring.

" _He...is not interesting."_ The brown haired man had summed up frankly.

Mathieu, in an effort of making friends, had shown the Southwestern colony the palace's impressive library.

Only, there were was a poor selection of books in Spanish (likely the result of lingering resentment England felt for Spain) and Canada kept promoting a shelf with Shakespeare, assuming that Tejas had some knowledge of him because who in the world didn't?

In the grand picture, he was trying to be kind. Trying to give Texas a painless way to engage with England and endear himself for future business.

England might've enjoyed taking him out to a play and the two could've built up a rapport.

What Mathieu failed to consider was that Texas wasn't the bookish sort. Unlike Mathieu and to some extent Alfred, he didn't live in a climate where the indoor pastime were a necessity. Why, Alfred had a strong feeling that the man had never experienced snow or rough winter oceans! When Alfred had commented that when their business was finished they'd all need to seek passage back across the Atlantic as soon as possible or risk danger, he'd cocked his head curiously.

Texas crossed his arms and responded that he'd been forced to read a few. Unfortunately, when his fellow colony pressed him for details, he blended them together.

Mathieu shouldn't have corrected him, but his brother had always been like that. It was one of the reasons Alfred had hated sharing lessons with him. Especially when Arthur smiled and commented, " _He's quite right. You'd do well to pay such close attention, Alfred. He's done his reading and then some. Well done, Mathieu my boy."_

Such a pet.

Texas shrugged and determined to prove he wasn't lying, recited a line he knew by heart: " _A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind. Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind._ "

Which scandalized Mathieu and made Alfred laugh so hard from his spot (eavesdropping) across the room that his chair tipped backward.

The hard fall silenced him for a moment then he looked over at Texas, repeated the line with relish, and they both started laughing.

He might've also given Canada a less than kind look as he did so. And his brother, who wasn't near as amused as themselves, left.

America should've known that he'd pay dearly for this moment of fun. England arrived soon after with Canada on his heels.

And though Alfred had been quick to right the chair he'd toppled...it didn't change the matter that he HAD chipped it through his carelessness.

He offered to fill, sand, and re-stain it himself since he had a poor man's wealth of experience with such things but was shooed from the room so Arthur could mourn the damaged furniture in peace.

Feeling rather downtrodden that a chair...a chair! Held a dearer spot than himself, he was desperate for a distraction.

It presented itself as he was passing a balcony. He spied Scotland practicing sword strokes in the courtyard below.

O he could've hurled himself over the railing! So great was his longing for distance between himself and Arthur! But he was keenly aware that if chipping a chair was a crime, jumping from a balcony would no doubt be a travesty.

As it was, he still ran to the stairs and down them. Servants leapt out of his way as he burst out of doors into the courtyard.

His uncle paused in his movements as he made great haste over to him.

Alistair rested his cavalry saber over his shoulder and stood waiting.

As if needing no further invitation than the slow cow-like blink, he blurted his troubles and Arthur's wrath and his own frustration.

"So...yeh've got too much spirit for the indoors. Well then, we best beat it outta yeh like a rug!"

Alfred grinned and waited with a thrilling, nervous expectation for Alistair to call for a second blade to be brought out. Because if anyone could improve Alfred's swordsmanship it was the Scotsman.

Only, the man walked over and drove his blade into the yard near the pavement and then gave Alfred a shove to move him out onto the green grass.

He felt a drop of disappointment settle in his stomach and he frowned. "I...I could use the practice." He gestured at the sword.

Alistair blinked, looked over at his sword, back at Alfred and said. "No."

"...it would help me," He murmured grimly as he thought of all the hostile tribes he would have to continue battling for his people to go westward.

"No."

"Alistair-"

"I said _no_ , laddie."

"But-"

"Alfred…" The man's thick eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. "I cannot."

"Why? You've raised a sword against me before."

The memory flashed of Alistair with his saber, Reilley with his bayonet, and Mathieu with his rifle and...others...though it hurt to think of them...doing battle with him in their most recent war.

The man sighed and looked away. "Yea well, I won't be raising it today. Yeh want to spar, or don't yeh?"

It was bareknuckle boxing or nothing at all.

Alfred removed his coat and vest and tossed them next to the blade.

They circled each other.

"Yeh, ready?"

Alfred rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and raised his fists.

"You start it, lad."

He took a deep breath and then lunged forward with a jab.

Alistair dodged and landed a blow near his right shoulder. Alfred moved back so the full force of the hit was lost. His uncle was a more veteran fighter and it showed in how naturally he moved.

But Alfred was improving. Steadily. Being sent out again and again and again forced him to learn; how to use his surroundings, how to maneuver his body, how to organize his men and supplies.

His time performing helped too; learning how to flex and tumble and adapt. No matter how many times you practiced an act every performance was different; the stage was different, the crowd was different, your heart was different.

You had to learn when to embrace the change and when to fight it.

Alfred blocked a hard side-swiping hit with his forearms and let the momentum move him. He grabbed and locked onto his uncle's arm.

Gray eyes widened in his surprise.

Alfred dug his feet in and for one glorious moment he was holding his uncle up in the air for what could've been a marvelous throw...only the man ruined it by using his weight with skill and forcing them to both fall to the ground.

Alistair laughed hard as the round devolved into a wrestling match. "You! Haha! Yeh bold, wee ned! Bold as brass!"

His uncle was far better at grappling than him and alarm raced through him remembering how swiftly enemy tribesmen could come up behind him and slash with their knives!

When the weight was suddenly off him!

A grinning Ireland was pulling his older brother back—dragging the man back through the grass.

Alistair reached up and flipped him and the man curled up and rolled away.

Alfred stood up, brushed himself off, and moved his foot as he noticed he'd nearly crushed a small patch of wild growing forget-me-nots.

There was a hoot of good cheer and for a moment, Alfred thought Reilley was on his side and then the orange haired man charged toward him and tackled him and they went end over end.

"Silly boyo! That's what you get for standin' about and admiring the flora durin' a fight!"

A three way battle then!

He delivered a hard punch to Reilley's side and received a rapid succession of blows to his chest. Before Reilley could land a hit to his jaw, Alistair gave a hard kick that knocked him down.

Alfred raggedly drew himself up into an unsteady stance as Alistair gave a predatory grin and advanced.

Alfred wheezed as he belatedly lifted his arms to block what was going to be a jaw-breaking punch if his uncle leaned into it.

He winced in anticipation and then-

Got a soft pat on the cheek from rough, square fingers.

His whole face burned at the blatant babying and Alistair smirked.

While he was busy being mortified, Reilley got behind him and in a split second decision, both Kirklands allied themselves against him.

Uncle Reilley had his right arm held tight, and Uncle Alistair nearly had him in a headlock when-

"WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING?!" Arthur demanded as he stormed over. Young colonies holding writing tablets for their lessons straggled after him like ducklings.

He took one look of the collective scene of combat and they all instinctively moved apart only…

Only Reilley still had a firm grip on Alfred's sleeve.

RIIIP.

"Oopsie."

"Ack, stupid bogtrotter."

Arthur stared.

Alfred flushed...and his suddenly, wholly, bare arm got goose flesh as a chilling breeze blew.

Alfred held his hand out and Reilley sheepishly set the sleeve in it. "Sorry, Alfie-boy."

Green eyes flashed. "You-you idiots, the lot of you! Why on Earth would you think this a suitable way to spend the afternoon? How?"

Alistair set an elbow on Alfred's shoulder and leaned near his ear. "Sorry, laddie. We should've rode out to the country or somemat."

"As if he didn't look threadbare before!" Arthur hissed. "Now he's a pauper!"

Alfred forced cheerful smile. "Now, now, I...I've seen worse than a popped seam. I'm certain I can find someone of skill," Cough. Himself. Cough. If he could have a moment alone with thread and needle. "Who can manage-"

"Would be a waste of their time to mend such old material. As you have failed to notice, cotton ages and thins when-"

Alistair moved his arm and stepped in front of Alfred. "Aye, we hear you. Yeh've said your piece. Fine. Eire, get him a shirt you clumsy clawba-"

Arthur's eyes bulged. "I have children with me you vulgar swine! And behavior like this-"

As if to drive home Arthur's point, two of the little colonies began aping the rough play and one succeeded in getting his arm around the other's neck in a choking hold.

At least until Arthur squawked and pulled them apart shaking a finger in both their faces and delivering a sharp swat to the hide of the more violent aggressor.

Another blast of icy wind got Alfred's nose running and he mopped it up with his ruined sleeve.

Trust Arthur to turn around then. He made a face of disgust.

Alfred sighed. Was there no mercy or luck for him this day?

Still, as Arthur turned back to his wards and began lecturing again on why such behavior was deplorable and uncouth and base…

Alfred watched the children sigh and fidget and felt moved with pity.

Living under Arthur's iron fist, which seemed to have tightened since Alfred's revolution, why the poor things likely had no concept of what fun was! He'd have to... _ **do**_...something...

* * *

Tejas shook his head and reached over to turn Alfred's wrist the other way. "Nononono. Don't show me your cards. Wait. No. Show me your cards. Yes, show me. You have far too many. If you trade then you trade, you don't keep. Dios...how did you get so many...you...you really do not know how to play at all?!"

"I told you that," Alfred replied quietly. He set the cards down. "I...I fear I...I do not know how to play. Perhaps you should join Mathieu's table and spare yourself the frustration."

Tejas scuffed a shoe against the ground.

America...wasn't smiling.

The colony kicked the heel of his foot against his chair's leg and then gave Alfred's foot a soft nudge. "Oi now, do not be like that. Here, we will just be a team. I will explain as we play. Philippe? Be gentle. Er...Por favor, ser amable."

His servant gave an indulgent smile and nodded. Sometimes it bothered him. They'd been children together only...Tejas had stayed one while he aged by. He was married now with four boys of his own, the youngest one was around Tejas's age. And now Philippe acted like he knew all the world's secrets. He kept calling America Tejas's amiguito.

The man reclaimed all the cards and shuffled them.

Tejas frowned; it was too hard leaning over to see Al's hand with each turn. He stood up.

Alfred looked up at him. "Huh?"

"Move over." He instructed so they could share the cushioned pouf.

The American went very stiff and awkward beside him—his elbows held tight to his body.

Tejas raised an eyebrow and knocked the American's knee with his own. "What? You never share a chair before?"

It was during their fourth round, when America didn't really need his help anymore, that he relaxed.

"And this one?" He leaned into Tejas to ask about a card combination that Tejas had already explained three times.

He ought to have been irritated but...there was something in the way he asked it…that Tejas realized he just wanted him to keep talking. It came as a surprise of sorts given that he'd assumed that Alfred just loved to chatter and thought silence was sin. But he seemed just as happy listening.

All these past days talking away to the air...

Like they were playing with skipping rope...and he was waiting for Tejas to jump in.

The conversation started to die and with it Alfred's smile.

"Si, si, er, yes. You will want to wait though and-" He elbowed the American. "And...do _**not**_ smile if you have a good hand."

Philippe snickered.

"Oh, right! Sorry." He tried to purse his lips, but the edges went up.

"Look, either smile always. Or don't smile at all while playing." Tejas clucked his tongue. "Hmm. Maybe we should try you on a different game? One that doesn't need your face to-"

"Am I that dismal?"

"No...yes. Do not be sad-look! Right now...you are a beginner. We can play more and improve you but...I don't think you'll want to go to the other tables. I think they're betting and you're...eh. We just have to find where your luck is. Have you played with dice before?"

* * *

England set another card down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Alfred laugh at something Reilley said.

See, boy? Was it so hard to find amusement that didn't require the destruction of person or property?

He'd offered to replace the shirt himself since he knew a tailor that was perfect for the task. And once they had Alfred measured up, Arthur would consider getting an estimate for a proper suit. If America could afford it, he'd encourage him to do so on the double. If he could not...Arthur could consider gifting him it.

It was a bittersweet idea.

Before...when America was his colony, the boy had stared at such gifts—remarking that it was "too fancy" and he knew not what occasion he'd need it for.

Years later, when America raged over a lack of representation, England rebuked himself. Had America seen it as a cruel gift? A suit worthy of attending Parliamentary sessions and not a man?

Had it been a quiet plea? That he felt that there were no grand occasions for him to participate in? Had Alfred but voiced such a desire, Arthur would've seen to it that he was welcome at assemblies and balls. He'd been a fair violinist and practice at parties would've done him well.

It wasn't a mistake he would repeat. He made it clear to his colonies of their privilege and rank as his wards and family and included them often in his affairs when it was safe to do so.

He stole another look at his former colony. The lace cuffs of his shirt were yellowing and there was a loose thread on the bottom of his vest.

A new suit should be welcome...as a nation...as a sovereign nation, appearances were vital. America had so much to learn. So much could be inferred by the state of one's dress.

For business, for diplomacy, for safety's sake he needed to be educated!

Nations could take advantage of him if he made his pitiful circumstances so obvious!

And if he did...concede to letting Arthur school him in such matters...it...it didn't have to be unpleasant...if he'd just...humble that awful ego!

He mused that a suit would be a fine Christmas gift if he could find a way to keep Alfred for a few weeks more. It would've been a sign of favoritism to gift him anything when he was out of sight, but if he was a guest in his home during the holiday...it had to be done. It would be a challenge though: the boy had a poor concept of how guests and hosts were meant to engage with one another if his mission in 1821 was any indication. Goodness, it seemed like he'd no sooner arrived in England than he was sailing back for America. Honestly, it bordered so closely to rude that if it hadn't been for New York being hit with a hurricane (and Arthur still having a tender spot for the area himself), he'd have made his anger known.

He shook his head and studied his cards. If America alone wasn't enough of a handful, then there was the fete King George IV wanted him to host for his fellow nations as a means of placating ruffled feathers after the empire had won so many battles in the last few decades.

France would be bitter, Greece might be grateful, Spain would be conflicted—they'd been allies against Bonaparte but...England had recognized Mejico.

Still, England thought it only fair...as Spain had recognized America and supported him.

It was probably a foolish idea but being a man of extravagant tastes and an idiot in many regards, it was like George to think throwing money at a problem would solve it.

It was no wonder he had such debts.

Still…

The King, unlike his father before him, was very understanding when it came to his...weakness...regarding Alfred.

Perhaps it had something to do with this monarch's extensive list of infidelities and resulting bastards but…

He seemed to view America in those terms and was surprisingly sympathetic.

When his ruler had first declared his intentions to hold a ball, England had tentatively asked if America, being so young and new, would be welcome at such an ostentatious event. And whether an invitation was wise, given that many of the attendees were powerful (and wary of England and those who associated with him) and America was still a fledgling nation with such a weak naval force; he couldn't really afford to have England's enemies as his own.

Neutrality (irksome as it could be for his former Colonizer to deal with) had often served the child well. If he leaned too much under England's wing, it could color his trading relationships with other European powers.

Arthur sighed.

The boy had turned down several invitations to infinitely safer balls in the past, perhaps aware that his substantial debts and Republican values could very well put him in danger of exploitation and hostility. Though Arthur wouldn't have offered then if he'd thought he couldn't guard him.

This one was different. Arthur had too many matters of his own to tend to that he couldn't dedicate his night to watching over him.

When he voiced his concerns about America, his monarch responded, _"Would it not injure him more to be shunned from the event?"_

As an...ex-colony...and one who'd rebelled as he'd done...there was an undeniably, polluted sense of...illegitimacy about him. He had such little history to stabilize his foundation and was such a radical compared to the rest of them that many were watching with sadistic interest.

They snickered as they called him: "The American Experiment." And England cursed Hamilton for popularizing such a name at all.

Quite a few nations had placed bets on when the young United States of America would collapse.

However strained their relationship was, England had no desire to see his little one...er...his ex-colony dissolve from poor governance.

As it was, he was considering penning a sharp rebuke to them. When he'd come down to survey the contents of Alfred's drying trunk several days ago, he was aghast to see how poorly prepared he was.

Arthur was strongly considering asking Reilley to lend Alfred some of his suits except…

Except it wasn't his responsibility!

If the little traitor was threadbare and humiliated it was a lesson for him and his government!

He lost the round of cribbage to Wales who followed his line of sight and raised a thick red blond eyebrow.

His eldest brother just couldn't appreciate the pain he'd felt earlier watching Tejas teach America how to play cards.

Arthur hadn't known Alfred was ignorant of the rules to so many gentleman's games.

He'd long assumed Alfred's aversion to card tables was a lingering air of Puritanical condemnation towards gambling.

But the boy seemed happy to play with his uncles for loose change.

The longer Arthur watched, the clearer it became that Alistair and Reilley were trying to give him some spending money.

It was a clever deception that afforded Alfred help without losing face. Arthur might just have to have a word with them and slip them larger bills. Embezzlement was a possibility (his brothers loved to drink when it was on his tab) but...it was hard to believe they'd cheat poor Alfred out of aid.

Arthur frowned when Mathieu interfered by joining and won a round by having greater skill than his brother.

He seemed oblivious to the Kirklands' combined irritation.

It stopped two rounds later when Tejas joined the table and brought dice.

Alfred had a hand for dice. Tejas cheered him on, clapping him hard on the back and taunting the other players. Alistair and Reilley had to play more seriously before they lost all.

Arthur pulled his coin purse out and made his way over.

* * *

Tejas was slipping beneath the covers when the ceiling of his room creaked with phantom footsteps. If only Philippe was boarding with him in this room, he'd have explained it away with a chuckle.

A particularly loud thump had him swallowing nervously as his mind conjured gargoyles as the reason. He'd seen statues of them included in much of England's architecture.

Perhaps it was a tribute? Or perhaps some _were_ actually-

 _Idiota._

He frowned as he thought of Mejico's sneering face whenever he'd run to her room over such fears as a small child.

He stood up, resolutely made his way over to the window, opened it, carefully leaned out, and looked up.

His jaw dropped.

Alfred was balancing on the edge of the building in his nightclothes!

He continued on his way to a room further down, knelt and then lowered himself with one arm onto a window sill.

Tejas felt like he was going to throw up. He looked down, felt his insides churn, and then looked back over.

Alfred wrapped his knuckles on the glass.

The window had bars on the outside of it but the glass went up.

"It's you! It's you, you came!" A young voice declared with delight.

America laughed. "I promised I would."

"Malta, who is it?" A loud childish voice lisped.

"Shh. You'll wake New Wales and he'll wake everybody-"

"Is it a ghost?"

"What? No, Tobago. It's America."

"I don't think he's supposed to be here. Big Bro-"

"Don't be a baby. He's here to tell us a story."

"Please light a candle and bring it near so I can read more comfortably," Alfred requested.

"We're not supposed to light the candles if-"

"Shh!"

"Big Brother Eng-a-land-"

"Don't you want to hear a story?"

A match was struck and Tejas saw the glow of a candle make a halo in the glass.

Alfred settled on the window sill, as comfortable as a night lark of the thin ledge and as fearless of the perilous height.

He opened a book, announced its title as _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ , and began reading.

He did his best to affect different voices for the characters and their thoughts when appropriate; he did an especially good Ichabod. And he was a good narrator; Tejas found himself snickering more often than not. And he didn't mind pausing to explain words for young ears or if several children laughed while one asked why, he explained the humor in the simplest of terms until they too got to giggle.

Naturally, it all meant he didn't get far and knowing the children still needed some sleep made his farewells and promised: "I'll read more to you on the morrow."

"Awws" followed the declaration and hands reached through the bars to handshake or pat him goodnight.

He then placed the book between his teeth, jumped to grip the edge of the roof, and swung his weight until he successfully mounted it.

Then the phantom footsteps overhead began anew.

It took him three nights to complete the tale and on the final night, while he was walking back to his room, Tejas (having finally worked up his nerve) opened his window all the way and leaned out as far as he could.

It was dizzying looking up. Looking up and knowing if he lost his balance but—

He forced his courage to the sticking place!

"Oye! America!?"

The nation paused, his nightshirt whipping in the cold breeze.

The bright moonlight shone through the off white fabric and illuminated his thin silhouette.

His face was too dark to see but he could hear the smile. "Texas? I didn't know you were so near."

Tejas focused on Alfred's bare feet which were so so so so clooooose to the edge it made his throat go dry. "Y-you like ghost stories?"

He blinked. "You heard us?"

"Yes."

"...Aye...v-very much so."

"W-well, come in. I-I know some...lived some…"

Alfred needed no further invitation and no sooner had Tejas ducked back inside, Alfred dropped down onto the sill.

Tejas practically lurched forward to grip the other boy's arms and haul him in.

He then closed the window and latched it and released a steadying breath.

"Heights?" Alfred questioned with a sympathetic tone.

"Dios…" He was estúpido. Anyone with any sense in them would've been frightened by that.

"Tex-"

"I cannot share my story if you are talking."

Alfred raced over to Tejas' bed and sat down eagerly.

It turned out that he had no knowledge of Cihuateteo.

Having been tormented by Mejico for years, Tejas found himself skilled in conveying the terror of them (especially given the amount of nightmares he'd had).

With their clawed feet and fists—ever ready to snatch a child on the five days they were allowed down on Earth.

Alfred leaned forward and hung on his every word.

It occurred to him a few tales later that Mejico would've been a better storyteller. Knew more details and tricks for inspiring fear and feelings of suspense. And that he could either tell Alfred to seek her out or tell Mejico of Alfred's interest in ghosts and the two would've had much to talk about.

But as soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it.

Mejico always had everyone's attention. What would it hurt for Tejas to have America's?

It also helped that his personal encounters with ghosts really piqued Alfred's interest. Even though most of them were rather uninteresting in his estimation; walking down hallways, passing by them in the street, them hovering in a cemetery. Si, the door-slamming ones were scarier and nobody liked ones that stand near your bed...but...

America went stark white and leaned hard against him—shivering. He muttered something so soft, Tejas couldn't hear him.

Tejas blinked. "Que? Er-what?"

"Can I stay?"

"Huh?"

"C-can I stay?" Alfred pleaded.

With him for the night?!

Tejas stared; 'No' was on the tip of his tongue, but "Why?" was what slipped out instead.

Blue eyes blinked up at him incredulously. "Because you have dealt with specters! You'll know what must be done and do it!"

Tejas almost laughed and his mouth opened to snidely correct him; that ghosts often did what they wanted and there was little anyone could do in the moment of being haunted. Maybe be patient or swift-footed (if a ghost was particularly hostile)...but other than that...

He took in a deep breath, ready to send him on his way...just through the door and...not the window...

But…

There was something...in that moment...in those eyes…

That all his spiteful laughter died away.

He knew he was an older territory than America regardless of how the two of them looked but...he hadn't...FELT it until then.

Wide blue eyes were focused on him…

Him. Tejas. The buffer state. The colony that was so difficult to deal with and settle that France gave up on, that Spain named a nuisance, that Mejico let foreigners in by the dozen…

Sure, he was used as a shield for Spain and then for Mejico against Indians but...there was a good deal of difference between being an instrument of defense and being a...defender.

"You'd know what to do," Alfred repeated with a child's faith.

Wind rattled the window and Alfred curled closer to him.

"Yes." He lied and tugged at the covers to turn them down. "Come, it is time for sleep."

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Tex is already dreaming of a day where the bolo tie exists. Horse snobbery. Fluff. Drama. Feels. Be warned: the mighty Angst Hammer is coming. DunDunDunnn. Vitamin C is vital for curing scurvy.

 **AN:** Woohoo. I finally finished this chapter. Seriously, I had to take breaks. To think, Gramarye is my lighthearted piece...in my mind. Thank you for your reviews and interest in this universe-expanding adventure. I'm stoked that Tex has generated so much interest, it's a blast writing him. : DDD

 **Chapter 3: Unfettered**

* * *

Tejas sighed and turned so Philippe could knot his cravat more easily. He fantasized about one day wearing light, easily removable neckwear. He eyed himself in the mirror. He was pessimistically certain it took him the same amount of time to unknot the damn thing as it took his servant to knot it.

"Cuento de fantasmas," His servant snickered and poked him in the ribs.

Tejas flushed.

The man went on to ask if they'd stolen sweets, too. Or made a tent with bed sheets.

When Tejas glowered, the servant's teasing relented, a little bit.

"Me da mucho alivio saber q-"

Tejas rolled his eyes as his cheeks heated even more. Philippe had been more than a little startled to find Alfred there that morning, but once he'd learned that Tejas had scared him with ghost stories…and that Alfred had begged him to stay...and Tejas...allowed it…

He teased him all morning—saying he was comforted to know that their friendship was "blossoming."

Tch. Philippe took a perverse joy in embarrassing him.

"He admires you."

Tejas blinked at his servant's sudden solemnity and then fidgeted. "You...you think so?"

How? The nation hardly knew him and there'd been very little opportunity for Tejas to show off any of his skills. He was good at roping and riding and...things that would cause much damage to England's home so he refrained from doing them.

"He is familia," Philippe murmured seriously as he straightened Tejas's sleeve. He thought over that aloud and pointed out that there was something similar in the face. "The nose?"

Tejas shrugged. "Possibly."

He'd noticed it too, that there was something strangely familiar about America. But whether it was in the flesh or in the mood or in the spirit, he couldn't say yet.

Or maybe it was their dislike for the trip.

It was a creeping suspicion that he doubted often and yet...he couldn't quite shake his certainty that for all his seeming cheer, Alfred wasn't too enthralled with being here either.

Or perhaps Tejas was looking for kinship where it didn't exist and even if it did…

What good would that serve either of them?

Even if they were united in their contempt for the castle. Or if Alfred was a brother or cousin or something...it didn't really matter. Tejas didn't have romantic notions about familia. Every person was out for himself in the real world.

He thought of his father, who was seldom there and only when it benefited him…

Brown eyes narrowed.

Who couldn't be bothered to write or visit or acknowledge him.

He thought of various Easters where he'd been dressed in his finest clothes. Bathed and brushed and staring out the window for approaching horses until it was determined that Spain's letter was wrong and he'd been detained.

If a padre couldn't be depended on…

And he already knew what hermanas and hermanos were like…

Loud, argumentative, pains-in-the-asses. Thorns! They were all spiny thorns who pricked and tore at him as he brushed past them or dragged them along.

He frowned as he thought of the large family Spain had made. The distant brothers he'd been forced to meet and with whom he'd had little in common. To the point where he preferred staying near Mejico—the devil he knew who...who never snatched his glasses from his face and kept them from him.

And he hated Papi for liking them and their violent games...and for sometimes blaming him for letting his expensive, fragile, spectacles be stolen and needing Papi to step in and rescue them.

With memories like that...what hope did he and Alfred ever truly have?

To be close?

And yet...

He thought of Alfred being too scared to leave his room, looking to Tejas for the fortitude and experience he was lacking. And while the bed had been narrow and cramped with both of them on it...when the frigid morning came, he didn't mind the surplus heat of the American. Or a circumstance where he got to be the tough hombre.

Or the way Alfred just seemed to...hover around like a wasp at the end of summer. He was kind of in the way at times but...Tejas was now having trouble being annoyed with him.

Admired him?

Nobody in his family admired him.

"Texas!" Alfred called as he opened the door without even knocking. "Let us break our fasts together." He held up a small basket brimming with pastries; England's kitchens seemed to have an endless supply.

"Texas?" Alfred repeated.

The American couldn't even get his name right.

"You liked the cinnamon ones last time, right? I made sure to procure more of those." The blond grinned and showed off the basket for Tejas' view.

The brunet stared down and then back up at the one who'd brought them.

"They're the right ones, right? Right? O bugger, I was so sure. Here, I'll go back down-"

He grabbed the other boy's elbow. "Yes. Yes. These are right. Yes, gracias. I mean-thank you."

Yes…

Yes, he had liked these ones...he'd noticed...

He ignored Philippe's amusement and, despite the nagging voice in his head that warned him that all of this was a waste of time, he offered Alfred the most comfortable chair in the room.

* * *

Tejas scuffed the toe of his boot along the floor, from his spot, several steps behind the American.

Philippe's arms were crossed; he had been noticeably reluctant in supporting their adventure—overconcerned with the weather...as England was now.

Besides green eyes, Arthur Kirkland looked nothing like Antonio Carriedo and yet...

There was something in the bearing of a strict father, that made Tejas's insides instinctively squirm.

"You wish to go riding?" England echoed. There was heavy disapproval in his furrowed brows.

"Yes," Alfred nodded. "It is Texas' desire, as well as my own, that we should enjoy the countryside. He hasn't had the chance to see the fields or forests or streams or anything!"

Something lightened in Arthur's face. Maybe at his lands being valued for their natural state, but it quickly soured. "I doubt you are the best guide for such a tour. You'll lose your way and my guest. It's his first time here and he's still learning the language. No. No, I don't have the time to play nursemaid to your whimsical ideas. I have far too much to attend to-"

"I think it's a wonderful day to be out of doors." Alfred smiled blandly, "I think the fresh air would do me, er, _us_ worlds of good."

Arthur stiffened a bit at that. Perhaps, more aware than Tejas would've guessed, at how the prized city he'd shown them days earlier was less than pristine. Even now, Tejas felt sure that there was still factory smoke clinging to the insides of his nose.

He glanced from the man to the lad. Or maybe it was because Alfred, who'd started to finally look better from his sea voyage (where he'd earned impressive bags under his eyes from vomiting at all hours of the day and night), had started to look worse after their trip to the city.

Where Arthur's paleness seemed a matter of climate and region, Alfred's had that concerning tinge of yellow and gray.

"Very well...Still, I know the season better than you and I can tell you now there are more storms coming. Keep your ride brief." Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Both teenagers grinned and sped off to the kitchens for food to take before heading to the stable.

They each packed a feast, knowing without even talking to one another that their scheme was to be out for as much of the day as possible, rain or not.

Philippe sighed as he followed.

Being back in a saddle was like a miracle.

He gave the horse a light squeeze with his heels and the equine picked up its pace.

The horses trotted, the young men chatted, and Philippe brought up the rear on a calm, old mare.

He and Alfred had been given Irish Draught Horses. Tejas was content with the friendly beast who liked having his left ear scratched over his right. But America was disappointed and was doing a dismal job of trying to hide it. He'd been far more interested in a spirited, field hunter at the far end.

And he'd muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, " _Yes,_ _ **they**_ _would give_ _ **us**_ _the farm animals."_

It surprised him that Alfred was a snob when it came to horseflesh.

And after they'd hitched their mounts to a fence and were making for a picnic, he demanded the reason why.

He dodged and laughed and tried to divert him, but Tejas didn't allow it. Not even when Philippe stared openly at his gall.

"They're farm animals," He murmured in an echo of his earlier words.

"So?" Tejas prompted.

"...I'm…" He struggled.

Tejas waited.

"I'm a farmer," Alfred stated.

"I am a rancher," He replied. "¿Cómo está?" All of this was very obvious; they'd seen each other's dwellings.

But Alfred didn't laugh.

"In America...I'm a farmer," He repeated—blue eyes cloudier than the sky overhead. "I'm a baker, I'm a carpenter, I'm a bricklayer, I'm a dock worker, I'm a clerk, I'm a scholar, I'm a diplomat, I'm a businessman, I'm a soldier, I'm a leader. I am respected among my neighbors and peers, a pillar of my community. But here I'm...just a farmer. And in this land...all I merit is a farm horse."

Brown eyes widened. "Oh."

It was an insult, then...to both of them actually.

Alfred didn't smile.

And despite his earlier curiosity to know what an envying or insulted Alfred might look like...it didn't feel right seeing his face this way; downturned with his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.

And the brunet knew his food wouldn't settle if he had to stare at him this way during their meal.

He wanted 'before' back. With the dumb smiles and the stupid chatter and the easy feeling that they were just strangers so nothing they said or did mattered.

Because...now…

Now…

It mattered that Tejas wasn't good with words. And he'd never cared before because in events of importance he never got to do the talking anyway.

But now...

Tejas fiddled with the bottle of wine he'd swiped. "W-w-well, I like these horses. They work hard. Hard workers are best, yes? Strong. Steadfast. Better than those who fuss...I think. I-I...I think so."

"Perhaps," Alfred murmured without looking at him. He emptied a cloth bag and Tejas watched several lemons roll out. Earlier, when they'd been packing supplies, the assistant cook had walked in with an armful and refused to let them leave without some.

He watched Alfred start peeling one.

He should've let the horse thing go. The instructions he was often given in matters of etiquette stressed the importance of silence. Even if it was sullen silence...it was better than loud, outspoken, bumbling words that revealed to everyone how little cunning he had inside.

And yet...he couldn't let it go. Wouldn't.

"Yes. I do. I-I think so."

Alfred did look back over then.

He felt his face heat up, but he continued. "They are good horses. We are good men."

Alfred sighed, "...we're common, Tejas. We're like the gorse, yonder."

Tejas stared at the yellow flowers invading the meadow in wild clumps.

Alfred set out a wedge of cheese and several slices of bread. "We have a season and then we fade into obscurity. And even when we're flowering..."

Tejas watched their horses nibble at the blooms.

"We never really matter to them."

Frustration began to build and bubble.

Because he knew that. He knew that feeling. He hated that feeling. He hated knowing that America knew that feeling. Knew that Tejas knew it too.

It built, and built, and built until it was a wrath he couldn't contain!

"WELL, _**HELL**_ TO THEM AND WHAT THEY ARE THINKING!" He shouted—so loud it startled birds from bushes and caused their horses to move nervously.

"Tejas!" Philippe gasped as he broke all sorts of rules of social discourse.

But Alfred's stunned expression at his outburst gave way to a grin he had never seen before. And he understood that all the other smiles he'd been offered before were polite and restrained.

This one…was unfettered...

This one...where they caught each other's eye and laughed without dignity or pause…

It was like playing the juego de memoria with cards, and he'd quite suddenly found the match.

Alfred pushed his shoulder playfully and then rested heavily on it, repeated the sentiment but added "bloody" and they both laughed so hard they fell over into the grass.

They ate, played cards, drank too much wine, taught each other dirty words in their native tongue, and swapped stories; Tejas shared more paranormal experiences while America told him all the hilarious ways his speeches at assemblies had gone wrong.

Tejas learned that all candles were evil. Always. Wigs were evil. Chandeliers could be evil; the evil increased with the amount of candles and how heavy it was. You could have too few people. You could have too many people. You could assemble the wrong people. You could have everything from drunk, rowdy, mob people to bored, sleeping, apathetic people. Roofs, windows, drapes, doors, fireplaces; all bad things, sometimes for the speaker, and sometimes for the listener. Papers getting wet, papers catching fire, papers getting lost, the wind stealing papers, papers being out of order, having the wrong papers, dropping the papers. The floor could be an enemy. Stairs were fundamentally evil...at all times; at the beginning, at the middle, at the end, at the rehearsal. Evil.

Alfred took another swig of wine before handing the bottle back to Tejas. "I am confident that I have experienced _**every**_ calamity a speech can have. And if a new way develops...I shall be the first to inform you...for it will have happened to me."

They ignored Philippe's warnings, the muggy air, the light sprinkle, and the harder shower. It was only when an absolute downpour released from the sky and darkness was upon them that they hastened to return.

Hired hands were waiting in the stable to dry their horses. Servants hovered by the doors waiting for them with quilts. Their muddy boots were confiscated for cleaning and their wet socks squelched as they shuffled through candlelit corridors.

Tejas' could feel Philippe's ire as the man stared hard at him in disapproval. Repeatedly, as the hour grew late he'd warned "Su hermana-" but Tejas always waved him off.

He swallowed as his host moved into sight at the end of the hallway.

Admiral Kirkland was shorter than him and yet...seemed infinitely more deadly and fearsome.

"It is my fault," Alfred offered readily before the Englishman could say anything.

"I am sure." Admiral Kirkland remarked.

Tejas' back stiffened at the exchange and he was surprised at himself that he wasn't relieved that the American was taking responsibility for their careless adventure; even though he could use it to ward off Mejico's and England's anger later.

Instead, his stomach turned with nervousness and admiration; Alfred took the blame...he took the blame...and he didn't even ask for forgiveness...

Not that there seemed any to be available.

But that he didn't ask for it…

Didn't need it...

"Come here." England ordered. He remained near the mantel of the fireplace and scowled. "Now. You'll catch your deaths with such foolishness."

It should've meant that he cared, but…

"The blind leading the blind…"

The tone, the words, the moment…

"You idiot."

Cold. Colder than the rain and mud and wind they'd rode through.

Maybe Tejas was wrong; that letter he'd spied, sent off to A. Kirkland wasn't a sign of affection, but an alert that his favorite target approached.

* * *

Alfred frowned lightly. "Come now." He offered his hand.

But Texas huffed and crossed his arms.

"I wish to aid you!" He insisted. "It would be less than gallant to abandon you in your time of need! Come now, take my hand. I should hate to see you stationed by the punch bowl for the entirety of the night."

He may also have had less benevolent motives; time with Texas was time away from the others.

It was awfully tiresome, coldly passing his former brethren throughout the house, as he tried to find something to amuse himself, aware of their quiet, dignified hate.

Yes; In his opinion, teaching Texas how to dance for the ball was a far more constructive use of his time than waiting for a turn that might not come in the Music Room.

Barbados was dominating the space and as the two had little love for each other. Alfred would sooner burn his violin than accompany her.

"Esto es estupido," Texas muttered but accepted Alfred's hand.

Alfred chuckled, "They tend to open with English Country Dances then alternate with Quadrilles. Now, since he has guests of distinction, he'll likely indulge them with dances from their native lands as well. To be perfectly honest, that is the best time to eat. Everyone will be so focused on them, you can leave and indulge yourself. You'll likely need to by then because, if you're like me, you'll be growing faint. Because, you see. Earlier, at the dinner, everyone will be watching you for the slightest mistake and will condemn you for having too much. Yes, it makes no sense. They'll present you with delicious food and not want you to eat it."

Philippe, who'd been cross with him for the muddy misadventure the previous day, became amiable by the lesson's end. He was also, by far, a better sport than his master and the two danced around the room laughing. Alfred had made a point of instructing them both, so Tejas would have someone to practice with should Alfred be detained. He knew Arthur would want a moment alone with him to discuss business. He'd want to know the message America was tasked to share and he'd want to choose at what time America was to deliver it at the meeting.

And since it was Arthur, and he was a petty man, the time he decided to take him aside for this conversation would be whenever it was least convenient. Cough. Cough...when Alfred was enjoying himself. As of late, it had been his prerogative to join in at whatever card table or dice game Alfred was participating in and spoil the good mood with his snobbery.

"I see sunlight!" Texas reported from the window.

During the break in the dismal weather, they made for the garden. There was something about the open sky and the fragrant flora that eased his nerves and he suspected Texas' as well.

Hoping to bring a piece of that feeling with them, Alfred pulled out a pocketknife and began cutting stems.

"Nosegay?" He offered the small bundle to Tejas.

"Uh...Alfred?" The territory questioned uncertainly.

"Hmm?"

"I...I do not think you are to do that, mi amigo."

Brown eyes looked deliberately to the far right. Sure enough, from the way flustered servants were gathering around the far end and pointing at Alfred, it was against the rules.

They ringed the oldest and best dressed among them, who sighed and nodded.

"They are coming over to us." Tejas murmured worriedly. "All of them."

"Is it crooked?" Alfred asked abruptly—motioning to a nearby stonework.

"Huh?"

"That great urn?" Alfred asked as he felt his lips twitch with a smirk.

Texas raised an eyebrow. "Er...yes?"

Yes. It and its pedestal weren't lined up quite right to the path.

Alfred slipped the nosegay through his buttonhole, skipped over to the stone urn, and lifted it. He then began tossing it up into the air and catching it easily; like a ball, like a hoop, like a toy. He then settled the urn on his hip and gave an exaggerated point to the pedestal. One learned when they performed on the stage, that they must move with melodrama for those far away to grasp their actions. With one hand he began to adjust it.

"What say you?" He asked loudly. "Like so?"

He shifted the great stone work with the ease of someone lifting a chair off a fold in the carpet.

A careful, artful glance through the wheat strands of his hair, saw the humans' faces contort in horror at the monstrous display of strength.

They staggered back and away and soon the courtyard was devoid of any but them. He was tempted to take a bow.

"That was...unkind...Alfredo," Philippe murmured. His face was pale but determined; like it cost him a great deal to speak so frankly to him.

"Maybe," Alfred acknowledged and then began snipping more blossoms with his pocketknife. "Or maybe it was unnecessary?"

The man didn't censor him again, but he did give Alfred a wider berth after that and talked in low tones to Texas. He kept taking him by the elbow and talking swiftly in Spanish.

It was on the fourth elbow-tug, Texas moved away from him and dismissed him from their company.

The servant's face was the picture of shock and hurt and somewhere deep Alfred felt the slightest stir of sympathy.

But what Texas did, was Texas' choice. And if he didn't feel like being ruthlessly nagged, Alfred certainly could not blame him.

It was what made his current situation so intolerable. He'd done all he could to be freed from England's iron grip and now found himself being crushed beneath his heel.

Philippe gave them both a long stare as he was ejected from their imperfect eden.

Alfred and Texas watched him go and then discussed the mortals' fearful faces with relish.

Philippe might've disapproved and later Arthur would as well, but…

Texas didn't mind.

Texas didn't mind at all.

And against his better judgment and all the bitter wisdom he'd earned by experience...he felt himself draw nearer to the other territory and could almost sense their fates aligning...like inked lines mixing together on blood dampened paper.

* * *

Alfred's smile didn't waver as he reflected that timing was essential in performance. Not just in the obvious bits; singing and dancing and acting and whatnot.

No.

One of the most crucial aspects of the stage, was knowing when to leave.

Some performers could be tricked with calls for an encore. One admirer in the audience could be enough.

Not him. Never him. He knew better.

When his act was done, he left. And this wasn't even his scene. So he really had no business being here on the eaves at all.

"My darling," Arthur crooned delightedly while he kissed a small hand.

Malta giggled and two other colonies began pressing in for their share of affection. England drew them all close and pressed kisses to their chubby cheeks.

 _Arthur laughed as he laid back into the tall grasses. Alfred crawled over and looked down at him. The man smiled tenderly—reaching a hand up and cupping Alfred's face._

" _I'll love you for all of my days on this green Earth," He vowed easily to the toddler._

Which was probably the most beautiful and most blatant lie, Alfred had ever heard.

It was never love.

 _Green eyes were soft on him as he squealed a mirrored oath to do the same._

It was never love.

 _Gentle arms cradled him close and he reveled in that warmth—foolishly certain it would never leave._

It was never love.

Never.

And he was better off for it.

There were no bonds, no chains anchoring him to anyone or anything. He answered to no one.

There was beauty in that. Freedom in that. Order in that. Because love was messy and chaotic and ugly in its sprawling, tangling, complicating ways.

He remembered England explaining after reading poetry that life without love was a death sentence.

His heart beat dutifully.

Another lie.

Life simply became more manageable.

Now, life moved like a pocket watch. Smooth gears turning so long as nothing unnecessary snagged between them...like love.

He retired to the garden or more like, to the fence, to play along the spikes and clear his mind.

He moved in a slow twirl alternating legs; toes in the space between spikes and then heel and then toes, and then heel. It required complete faith in his own sense of balance.

And he liked that. That feeling where only he existed. Because he knew himself and his limits and his strength and he was safe...away from _them_.

Balanced atop of the iron gate, with wintry air blowing through his hair—it felt like he could finally breathe. It often seemed like the higher up he was, the better he felt. He idly noticed he was growing an audience. He increased his pace. So they blurred out of focus and he could pretend them out of existence and he could be blissfully alone again.

When there were enough eyes for it to no longer be a private moment for himself, he flipped off of it—doing a half twist in midair, landing on his feet, and throwing his arms up to a happy cheer.

It surprised him that Texas was the first to scold him—pushing Canada out of the way to have the first honors.

"What are you thinking?" Texas asked. "Are you drunk?! You're drunk. You must be. Why-"

Canada moved in on him next.

"What if they do as you do?!" Mathieu demanded angrily—gesturing to the gaggle of colonies that had wandered out into the garden to watch him.

Alfred shrugged. "Then they best do it well. Or they'll injure themselves profoundly."

Violet eyes widened in shock.

The one Aus-something was trying to do a handstand.

"Alfred?!" Mathieu's face contorted with shock and repulsion.

"What of it?" He replied—not understanding what the problem was. It reminded him of how people tried to blame him for France's bloody revolution.

He was a firm believer of free will. They way he figured things, people did what they did because they wanted to do it. And as long as they were willing to pay the consequences of their actions, what did it matter?

He turned from Texas and Mathieu and took note of a furious Arthur stalking toward him—first pointing at the gate and then at him. He shook his head and his eyes were narrowed into slits.

A curious buzzing filled Alfred's ears at the sight of him.

The Briton's mouth moved with angry words and the bridge of his nose wrinkled.

Alfred blinked. It was the strangest thing. Like a silence had descended over everything, but only for him. Others' mouths were still moving and seemed unaware.

 _Arthur hoisted himself over the roof's edge, face white and furious while he panted. "Come here. Boy, you come here this instant!"_

 _Alfred, who was huddled by the chimney, and had been triumphantly certain moments ago that he would win his game of hiding and seeking with Mathieu...now felt his insides flood with dread._

" _D-daddy?"_

" _Now!" The man reached for him with an arm._

 _While he'd endured the lecture of a lifetime, the arms that carried him down were gentle._

 _They were gentle._

 _The hands that wagged in front of his face and made him promise to never go up there again and brushed away his guilt induced tears...were gentle._

These hands weren't.

He got a hard box to one ear that snapped his head harshly to one side and then England snarled and grabbed the front of his vest.

 _This man…_ He thought. Y _ou once believed this man was your hero…_

A wooden button broke under the fierce grip and the man shook him.

" _I'll love you for all of my days..."_

It was...never love...

Or rather it was never the soul-saving, eternal tenderness that Romanticism championed as a shield of ultimate goodness and reason for being.

There was **_that_ **love which you read of in stories and poetry. And then there was this...what Alfred had received. People like Arthur called it love, because they didn't know better. But it was really just fondness. The pale, watered down feeling of amiability one felt to another who provided amusement or usefulness. And it eroded so easily. Because it was weak and fragile and cheap and common.

Sound returned to the world and he received a tirade of abuse.

England was angry about his showing off. And the scary stories which had contributed to bad dreams for poor little colonies. O and the messes he'd made and the poor behavior he was modeling for Texas and a slew of other things.

A slew of other things…

And with such meticulous detail...

Like it was a private joy for England to sit at his desk and think and list all the ways America was an awful guest.

Alarm turned to boredom and then to apathy.

"I don't want you near the children!" Arthur hissed in conclusion—shoving him hard enough to bruise him...to knock him down.

But he doesn't fall. Rather he uses the momentum to spin and stays on his feet. Mean amusement rises in him. Like he's never been pushed by rowdy crowds or unimpressed circus-goers?

And he laughs at Arthur's foul temper. Comments that it doesn't surprise him at all that they're such sniveling, weaklings. Caged little things that they were. Why the wind would knock them over if Arthur didn't stand guard!

It infuriated his ex-colonizer and scandalized the spectators.

"If you cannot be trusted to abide by my rules in my house. Then you're not welcome here!" He hissed.

Not...welcome…

Like echoes in a cold well, it reverberated.

There.

The truest thing England has said thus far.

It was out in the open, at last.

What America had long suspected; that this whole damn thing was a charade. Contrived by their governments, in a mistaken belief, that forcing them into close contact would somehow mend ties and trade and diplomacy would improve as an effect.

Alfred's laughter bounced off the stone walls of the courtyard and drowned out the old man's choice swears.

Unwelcome indeed.

* * *

England's knife and fork worked furiously; he cut his meat, lifted it, chewed and swallowed methodically. There was another storm raging outside. Whenever the weather was dismal it seemed to make his old crusades' wounds flare. His leg and ankle felt tender and his mood was admittedly low.

Green eyes flitted along the table's diners—ensuring they were well tended. Mejico dabbed at her mouth demurely. Tejas was rearranging his food on his plate. Mathieu was chewing slowly, contemplatively. His wards seemed to be eating well.

He was determined not to look, even once, at America's empty seat. The boy was goading him...laying so distressingly low.

He was no fool; he knew the lad still resented him for their last war. He knew that to some extent, his acting up was a result of it. He wanted Arthur's attention, wanted to throw stones, said mean spirited things to provoke him.

In some ways, England thought it was just as well. Childishly defiant and shortsighted as it was, it was a far more appropriate response than the one America had given following his rebellion. Where he'd expected all to be forgotten after 1783 and that Arthur would applaud him and send a tin of biscuits.

No. There was something harder in his eyes now. His naivety was waning. That was...good. In the grand scheme, that was good. He needed some skepticism to keep him safe. Though it might've...hurt Arthur to know he was the reason the lad was developing it.

No; it was better this way. Better that it was him, who wouldn't hurt him. Who knew what other nations would've done to him now in the aftermath? England always immediately resumed trade. Others would've watched him squirm. But it was good for him to recognize that there were lines and boundaries. As a sovereign nation you had to gain a true sense of your people versus others and acknowledge all the differences. And then you had to learn how to resolve those differences diplomatically. Even when your heart of hearts was tumultuous.

Yes; part of being a successful nation was learning how to overcome such feelings for the good of your people.

America did his government no favors by spurning their connection. Anglo-American business and British investment was vital for the young nation. And if he could just develop some maturity and common sense, they would stop locking antlers. Truly, what had he been thinking? Not only was he being a terrible role model for England's colonies (reading them things Arthur had not approved, staying out beyond curfew in dangerous weather, and engaging in reckless behavior), he could've seriously injured himself! One slip and-

Arthur was loathe to think of it. He'd seen too much; removed impaled figures...often prisoners of war whose remains were displayed for intimidation...to break morale. It was terrible to see on the battlefield, to have it at his home...it would've been...horrific to have had to pull Alfred off.

Bile rose in his throat just imagining it.

He thought of bright blue eyes and a cherubic smile.

 _"Daddy pwotect me pweeeaase..."_

 _"I'm your wittle Alfwed..."_

He thought of the lad walking away. The back of his uniform burning into Arthur's eyes and the moment branding itself into his heart...to be carried with him always.

 _I can't protect you from yourself_... _from your idiocy_ , he thought darkly.

During dessert, a servant approached with news of America (another had done so earlier, but he waved him away and kept eating) he would not allow that little upstart to spoil their appetites.

He could already see several of his youngest wards had paused in enjoying their custard tarts to watch the exchange with pensive expressions. Alfred always did that. Managed to throw things into complete disarray just by appearing.

His littlest ones were nervous. A shame because it isn't near as often as he'd like for the little ones to join him for a meal. The scholars of their time kept insisting that children required different eating and sleeping schedules and that too many festivities would cause them undue stress.

That had to be avoided.

He'd had precious little research to rely on during Alfred's upbringing. He sometimes blamed that for their wars, for their estrangement. Arthur hadn't known enough. He learnt from that for his other colonies' sakes. Vowed to take all the guidance he could to better shape them into sound adults. Ones that wouldn't have America's wealth of flaws and eccentricities.

He motioned for them to continue and for the servant to leave.

Whatever Alfred's troubles were, they could wait. His current wards had to take precedence.

It was long after...

When the children had gone with their governess to the nursery to ready them for bed, that he agreed to hear news of America.

Settled in his office intending to see to some business, Arthur waved Mr. Roddam over.

England poured himself some brandy in resignation. To brace himself for whatever Alfred had broken (most likely by accident) while in a fit of sulking. The boy just didn't watch where he was going when he was upset.

Arthur would probably have to go soothe him somehow. Maybe he'd have a treat brought up; the boy was likely famished by now, if he hadn't already raided the kitchen.

His reports had established that Alfred had already endeared himself to the kitchen staff.

" _I see now why you told us to bake the tarts in bulk,"_ The head cook had chuckled when Arthur made sure that Alfred was visiting them.

He was still concerned though. Alfred had as much as admitted that he was feeling ill. Some malaise was to be expected after a hard voyage and strenuous journey on foot. But that he'd specifically asked for fresh air and had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the garden.

And the fact that he kept disregarding the rain and cold...

Arthur frowned; did he find it refreshing? Arthur would have to make sure he wasn't running a fever.

But first, he would need to make a stop by his bedroom and retrieve a lemon as a precaution. He took care to have a personal lemon tree in his quarters. It was a small, potted plant; three feet high and it produced fruit all year round. He kept it as a private means of preventing scurvy.

The letter he'd received about Alfred's arrival had mentioned that the boy had suffered severe seasickness for the duration of the voyage. Arthur had been sure these last few weeks, to have the boy's diet include lemons and potatoes. And if he was wrong and Alfred's troubling complexion was a simple case of jaundice, Alfred's garden strolls would eventually clear it up. Provided he didn't contract something else by failing to guard himself from the elements.

"What has the boy gotten himself into?" Arthur asked.

The quiet tones of Mr. Roddam did little to soften the blow. He set the crystal glass down in an effort not to crush it.

"What do you mean he has left?" He demanded sharply—standing up. "When?"

"Sir, we did try to inform-"

"He left in this!?" He gestured to the window—where lightning was flashing across the sky. "To where? Where has he gone? Tell me to where he's-"

The man looked resolutely ahead. "Earlier, we had wished to know if you wanted someone to follow but now—Sir, it's been hours now, he could be anywhere and...this weather would just put our own at risk."

Yes.

Arthur wearily sat down.

"...Yes...you're...quite right...If he's foolish enough to venture out…" He was young and prideful and stupid. Arthur swallowed painfully. "We'll make inquiries in town on the morrow."

"Very good, Sir."

A cold, miserable night might well make him better appreciate the warm room and secure roof Arthur could offer him. _**Had**_ offered him.

Arthur bypassed his poured glass and reached for the bottle. He took a deep sip. "As soon as there's light, or...when there's a break in the..."

"I'll make it known, Sir."

Long after his wards have turned in…

After the children were safely tucked in and he's kissed each one's forehead a fond goodnight…

After the elder ones' late night schemes were vanquished…

After the maids had done their bulk of cleaning...Arthur lit a candle and traveled through the hallways.

He pushed into the unlocked space.

The bedroom was small; it had to be. It would be an insult to other, greater nations to treat him too generously.

He wasn't sure why, but he half-hoped to find the curtains torn to ribbons, the dresser in splinters, something!

Something to match the maelstrom of anger and hurt swirling in his breast.

Rather than take his words as a warning and adjust his behavior, America accepted it as a-a-a welcome dismissal! Having his hospitality rejected…

"You're a cruel boy," Arthur murmured to the missing occupant.

Left.

Gone.

Empty.

The small space was immaculate...like he'd never been there. Like he'd just been another of Arthur's daydreams, where he'd finished his work early and heard the children laughing down the corridor and deceived himself for a moment...that Alfred would be there too, when he rounded the corner.

Arthur set the candle on the dresser and laid down on the bed. The pillow's lingering scent of fields and wild flowers was the only proof Alfred had been here at all.

That and…

Arthur squinted through the semi darkness spying half a button.

Dammit.

He recalled their confrontation with greater introspection.

He rested the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Damn his temper.

He destroyed that vest.

He had a vague memory of it from a meeting in a 1801.

If he's right, it means Alfred had to sell the buttons off it and replace them with cheap, brittle, ugly wooden ones.

And the idea brings no satisfaction.

That his poor, threadbare, estranged child is out struggling in the world.

I _f you'd stayed underwing, you'd be cared for. I'd never allow you to be in rags!_ He thought.

Thunder rolled and rain hit against the window panes.

"And that damned trunk. All your things will be wet. Again. You'll be drenched and have nothing dry to change into…" Arthur growled. "You'll catch pneumonia, you idiot. You'll catch it and it'll be your own fault, you little fool. You'll have scurvy and pneumonia and jaundice and I'll have to...I'll have to..." pray that he didn't run into any highwaymen and suffer worse!

Tormented by new visions of danger, Arthur buried his face in the pillow and stayed. Stayed until the candle melted down to a stub and the wick smothered itself in wax.

Stayed through the darkness.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or the Portal 2 quote in the Note.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Slang. Virginia farming crop. London slums. The previous chapter was so angsty this one should probably feel less so in comparison? Right? Maybe? No? Good luck to you then.

 **AN:** Goodness, took me long enough to update this, just got all wrapped up in Gram and school. Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm glad you've been enjoying this one, definitely a different flavor from the others. There have been some fun suggestions in the reviews: Prohibition/Gangster adventure and a wonderfully morbid series of Death Drabbles (lmao at that one because yeah, let's add more angst and violence. Woo! [Reminds me of GLaDOS...who I hope isn't my spirit animal: "He says what we're all thinking!"). I've also had a few more Tex and America adventures floating around my brain as well, involving a BrieflyIndependent!Tex & America fic at Carnevale (T) as well as an Annexed!Tex, America, & Molossia in the Wild West fic (T), and a darker/edgier Tex & America in Victorian London (T or M). But we do need to see that Gangster/elevator scene at some point, don't we? XD Because that's who we are.

Hope you enjoy! : D

 **Chapter 4:** **Poverty And Pestilence**

* * *

Tejas looked around at the occupants of the drawing room and hated them all with a bitterness previously unknown him. Anger and resentment and envy and jealousy were all mean companions he'd lounged with before...oh, but bitterness...bitterness of this kind was something new.

It wasn't even that he was sure he truly liked America, the too loud, too dramatic American who was as subtle as a tornado.

But he didn't like the manner of his leaving.

 _Tejas tried and failed to mask his reaction._

 _"Good Lord, what a face!" Alfred laughed. "You look so very tragic."_

 _He couldn't help it. He never could when he was horrified. "_ _It is not right. For you to go like this...it is not right."_

 _"Hmm?" Alfred tried to look bored, but his lips trembled and he blinked too much._

 _"He should not have..." He hesitantly gestured his hand to the other's vest which was missing buttons because of that...confrontation. No, that was too clean a word. That was a fight. An unfair fight._

 _It reminded Tejas of when a gallo killed one of its own chicks and the heavy sick feeling it put in his stomach. Bothered him so much he dragged Papi out there and pointed at the bloody remains, expecting some kind of sympathy because Papi was the one who'd shown him that they hatched in the first place. Spain shrugged that sometimes that happened and they were lucky more weren't killed. The murderous fiend charged them then and Spain shooed the thing away with his boot when it tried to peck at their feet._

 _Alfred moved a bit restlessly, from foot to foot._

 _"Oh, yes, well, it can't be helped. I...I overstepped. Forgot myself...my place...I don't know what I thought...goading him like that. It was stupid...I was stupid," It was said in such a blunt, bleak tone._

 _But it wasn't apologetic._

 _It was acknowledgement but it wasn't apologetic._

 _Tejas moved a little closer._

 _"It doesn't matter though. I'd much rather be out there," he pointed to the woods, "alone and starving then fed and underfoot...having to take kicks as they come. I fought too hard to be free to be leashed now." And his eyes were hard and cold and fierce and blazed like they hadn't in any of their previous conversations._

 _Blue fire...or blue ice? He couldn't tell...but if America had_ _looked like that in battle, Tejas could more easily understand how his independence was won._

 _It was odd; A_ _lfred was too honest with him right then. Tejas had enough problems, he didn't need more. So why was it that after they both seemed to realize it and Alfred tried to make up for it by smiling and shrugging, Tejas felt annoyed? Alfred could have kept talking about that. Tejas would've stayed and heard it._

 _But he didn't. And Tejas should've been glad of it. That Alfred was letting them go back to a "before." They could act like he'd never said anything. They could part as acquaintances and meet up later as acquaintances and always be acquaintances forever..._

 _Tejas's fists clenched and he frowned and repeated, "He should not have treated you like that."_

 _"Yes, well," came the careless shrug, "when one is an Empire one amuses himself by being a complete ass whenever one chooses."_

 _He gave Tejas a smirk._

 _Tejas crossed his arms and stubbornly repeated, though his voice faltered this time, "He...he should not have treated you like that. Not right. S'not right."_

 _He wished he was better at English so he could've said something more helpful than that. But he was upset and his command of the language was leaving him._

 _"Not...right..."_

 _Alfred hesitantly gave his arm a playful prod, "Say now. Truly, what a miserable expression, ha ha! Don't let it be on my account, I am guilty of enough mayhem as it is without causing you...I...I ought to be going...I was pleased to have your company, Texas...I...er...I…" the jovial air deflated as he ran out of happy words and false cheer and he ended abruptly with, "Goodbye."_

 _Tejas stood there dumbly in the rain watching him go._

 _There was nothing else he could do. Nothing. He had neither the skill nor influence nor threat of force necessary to soften his host's hard heartedness, or ability to disabuse America of a truth they both knew too well:_

 _Some fathers were terrible._

 _He wasn't a great liar so it wasn't like he could feign ignorance of England's obvious dislike of America._

 _And even while it was feasible that he could've argued that it was at least sensible to stay, even under a roof that was hateful (and boy did Tejas know that misery),...he could not bring himself to._

 _His tongue was ready. It was smart to stay. A more prudent man would stay. There were many excuses he could give. Tejas had more card games and techniques to teach him...more ghost stories to tell him...more dance steps he needed to learn if he was to do well at the ball…_

 _But he couldn't do it._

 _Because...he was half afraid the latter bits might work on Alfred's chivalry._

 _And he knew...with a terrible sort of certainty that it would cost him too much._

As a young child he'd witnessed his brothers time and again capturing butterflies with hands and nets with the sinister intent of peeling wings off.

Papi would shrug that it was better bugs than beasts (for if they tormented the horses, he'd tan their hides). Still, he scoffed at Tejas's distress.

 _Spain frowned at his tears. "You are too soft, Toni...if butterflies are to be mourned, what will you do, I wonder, when the world shows you her real horrors?"_

That his father couldn't fathom the terror of being something innocent and alien and unknowing yet still fated to suffer under cruel hands...for no reason...no...worse...for entertainment...

It was better that Alfred crawled away with one wing yet.

Tejas frowned at his competitors over his cards.

Canada smiled and complimented him, "You're quite skilled, Tejas."

He nodded and set down a royal flush.

Canada paled, "Q-quite skilled...I-I've lost."

Tejas nodded and gathered the bets to his side.

"Robbing us blind," Reilley huffed—having folded enough times that he was content to be a spectator only.

Mejico kept giving him hard glances, as if torn between wanting to scold him for showing up their host's family and wanting to swoop in and demand a portion of his winnings for herself as tribute for being the sovereign nation out of the two of them.

"Lady Luck is sweet on you today, boy."

He shrugged.

Some people feel luck and know when its fingers are on them—good or bad.

And then there was this.

Determination.

To play them out of all he could—take their money, respect, reputation.

He wanted to strip them of it all.

* * *

Tejas watched his host straightening children's dresses and suits. The ones he lingered with were favorites. They got softer hands and brighter smiles.

Spain had been much the same in giving his attentions to favorites. Though, he wasn't gentle. He just wasn't that sort. But his pleasure was obvious, he got playful, boastful, grinning and fierce when he was in the company of the ones who brought him joy.

Tejas was tolerated of course, he was familia, but he often earned an odd watchful look. Even after he got his glasses and wasn't a tenth of how clumsy he'd been, he still got that look. The one he learned to hate.

It shouldn't have surprised him that he didn't merit a single letter from his father whilst he was abroad and so near.

He couldn't have possibly expected his father to make good on his promised visits to Madrid now.

And yet...any letter...even a hateful one would've been better than silence.

Like he wasn't even worth the effort of pen and paper.

"They're horrible," he told Philippe.

"Who, Señor?"

"They're ALL horrible."

He then gave a thorough, if crude, condemnation of fathers as a whole, which Philippe tried to dissuade—he was a father himself.

 _Yes, and you followed me out here instead of staying with them,_ he almost said. Almost. He knew the man needed money. And the promise of money could entice humans to the most ridiculous and far flung places the Earth possessed.

With some of the paltry spending money Mejico allotted him, Tejas made it a point to find out where Alfred wound up because barkeepers always knew things or could find out things for the right price and so he traveled there. She'd have hated that, so he didn't tell her.

Philippe would've hated the place too, so he didn't tell him. Instead, he asked for a ride into town in the morning with the expectation of taking a carriage back by evening.

And he knew well that if one like him, barely literate in English managed to find Alfred, there could be no mystery for his relations. They had to know where he was.

The carriage driver was almost beside himself to take him to such an address but he let his temper flash in his eyes and got his way.

The air was thick with soot, smoke, and the dung of man and beast.

There were shrieks and cackles and newborns squalling.

The hotel or hovel or whatever it was, situated here in St. Giles, offered little protection from the outside as it was so full of drafts and malice and squalor and...

¡Dios!

It was a place of poverty and pestilence and Alfred's blue eyes had widened to the size of plates when he forced open his room's battered door.

And that was something.

Catching him truly off-guard was something.

His face sort of twitched—valiantly trying to throw off the look of shock. But it couldn't quite decide whether to sport an expression of horror or pleasant smiley indifference (the sort better suited for if they'd suddenly met up in a park on a happy June day...instead of here).

"Invite me in? Yes?" Tejas put his foot in the door, surprising himself with how forward he was being.

"It would be kinder not to," Alfred mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

Tejas frowned.

Alfred looked around and then back and admitted, "There...there are roaches here."

Tejas raised an eyebrow. "Yes. They...they are...are probably some of the more innocent inhabitants."

He felt rather proud of the joke.

He'd already heard sounds and thumps and screeches to suggest that violent passions of love and murder could well be taking place mere feet in any direction.

To his delight his declaration (and he had hoped his humor translated correctly) was met with breathy laughter, slightly spitty because it was unplanned and Alfred hastily lifted a hand to try and muffle it. Or perhaps it was to cover the cough that followed on its heels.

He was pulled inside. The door was ill fit to the frame and sagged, leaving a strange, triangular gap at the door and making a terrible groan as it was made to shut.

Tejas was given the room's small wooden stool while Alfred perched on a very poor and lumpy bed that seemed made of straw and empty wooden boxes and made Tejas think of coffins he'd seen for sale at mercado during outbreaks of fever.

Alfred shook his head. "You are something, Texas. I cannot believe you sought me out. You really ought not to be here. Your reputation could suffer terribly."

He shrugged. "Why?"

"Because Texas, this...this is no place for a gentleman."

Tejas stared at him.

Alfred's mouth fought against a frown, and he kept himself upright as he delivered resolutely with a firm cold smile, "I...I am no gentleman."

It felt odd having the difference in rank between them said aloud.

"..."

And it was true. All he said was true.

But…

Tejas had stayed in a castle brimming with gentlemen…

Was raised by one...supposedly…

Was being hosted by another...

And...

For the life of him…

America not being a gentleman...

It didn't seem to matter.

* * *

America painstakingly mended a tear in his jacket's elbow, more because he was worried about the draft it'd let in than matters of class and aesthetics.

Where he was staying it simply marked him as a denizen of the realm...granted him admission as it were.

Still, it was almost monstrous strange to have Texas paying him visits here. Nothing in their previous interactions really suggested that Texas had any special affection for him.

It was dangerous to dwell on.

Better to dismiss it: boredom, leisure time, and curiosity could make strange acquaintances. That was all it was...though the sad likelihood of that made him shiver like he had a draft in his soul and he didn't know how to stitch that up.

He ought to end the visits for both their sakes.

It wasn't like Alfred abhorred company...even if hosting a guest never held the special thrill it did for Fa-Arthur.

It just wasn't wise. So he announced during the next one that he had work the following day and expected that to do the trick.

He didn't want to be cruel if he could help it, he'd just lay out why it was no longer feasible.

Only the Texan surprised him further by simply appearing at an earlier time.

He arrived at dawn while Alfred was just just stirring. The brunet was bleary eyed and a bit disgruntled but determined to catch Alfred ere he could evade him.

Alfred explained that there were several roofs in the area whose owners would pay him to patch what he could. It would be messy and the pay would be poor.

Grimy honest work usually scared gentlemen off.

He was met with an almost defensive, indignant, "I have worked before...and for no pay...abuelas need someone to help them when their daughters and granddaughters grow up and leave or their sons die in battle. I help abuelas when I can."

He was obviously uncomfortable being high up, but he glared every time Alfred suggested he stay on the ground. He made the effort and the jobs were done in half the time.

It pained Alfred though, to split the money he so desperately needed, but his sense of fairness wouldn't allow him to take the lion's share; even if he was the better carpenter out of the two of them. Texas surprised him once more by admitting as much and asking for instruction unflinchingly. He followed his orders to a T and was a quick learner. And Alfred wasn't a trickster of that ilk who could insist such lessons were worthy of payment...even while Alfred was certain he was training up a rival; Texas could easily make use of the skills and start pocketing more funds on the side.

Alfred's reluctance (which he hoped desperately hadn't shone through) swiftly turned to shame when Texas used his new funds to buy the two of them lunch.

That was unexpected and it was curious that it stung quite so sharply. He thought he'd learned by now how to take pity when it suited his purposes but…

Maybe...because it wasn't the high handed charity he usually received in times of trouble…

Maybe because Texas didn't really know what he was offering...

For the life of him, he tried to decline but Texas shrugged him off with a, "Well, Boss, you got us the jobs, I get us the lunch."

Possibilities of friendship seemed fraught with peril, and Texas being a foreigner from beyond his borders made it all worse.

Still, his melancholy in seeing the other go struck him. It was probably the setting. Being stuck here under such gloomy skies was bound to make ennui more catching.

His departure was for the best; dusk was upon them and if this was no place for his fri-acquaintance during the day...it certainly wasn't at night. Though it amused and pained him at turns what the other young man might think of seeing him at his other means of work. If he had, he'd finally know what Alfred was a farmer of.

Despite visiting him a handful of times, Alfred was certain Texas didn't know. He recognized cornstalks when he saw them (which Alfred used to sustain himself and his chickens) but not…

Well, he did let his real crop grow rather wildly, not bothering with rows. Most people never saw them in bloom, let alone used their flowers to decorate their kitchen table. It wasn't Tex's fault he didn't recognize...

His sigh started a bout of soft coughing and he smothered the sound and his running nose in his sleeve.

He'd caught cold and had hoped roof-patching might put off selling for another day. He'd already gone out several nights this week, but there was nothing for it. He needed to go out once more or his funds wouldn't last. And how humiliating would that be? To return to Arthur's gate, tail between his legs, whimpering for scraps and a place downstairs beside the kitchen's hearth?

He eyed the package on the far end of the bed. He'd picked it up on his way back to his lodging from the post office where he'd been paying them to hold it special.

He'd spared no expense in having the packages sent carefully (more care and attention than he'd lavished on himself by far) because...business...and any moisture leaking inside would ruin them.

His plan had been to stay at the castle and then see if he couldn't get his uncles to let him into a gentleman's club or two to sell his wares.

They would've paid him better there.

Oh well. Sadly, his recent troubles meant he had to adjust the price for his new clientele or risk not selling anything at all.

He'd already gone through one package. This one he would take tonight.

And there were still two more on their way which he'd instructed a neighbor to send a bit later.

Initially, he'd intended them all to provide him with some spending money so he wouldn't feel like an absolute beggar in the Empire's presence as they visited boutiques.

But all he planned for wasn't going to happen, and now they were vital to keeping him from sliding lower; if he wasn't careful he was going to end up sleeping in the forest to cut costs. It would be humiliating not to be able to afford his return trip or to have to get it on credit; God, one look at his clothes and a lender would laugh at him.

He stared down at the coat in his lap, knotted his thread and snapped it free. He pulled the worn coat on and buttoned the old, unfashionable thing up. He pulled his boots on, fastened his horribly outdated cloak, and strapped on his vendor's box.

* * *

Alfred plodded along down the dark, foggy streets as the streetlamps flickered, calling out,

"If ya wanna good smoke,

Ask any o' folk-

all-around, s'no joke,

it's Virgiiiinia.

Sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!

Sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!

Smooth little treat,

O the taste can't be beat,

'Cos it's sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!"

Sure he got plenty of "Pipe down ye damn whooperup!" But he also got customers.

And it wasn't like he ever just stayed in one spot for long; one, he didn't want to anger his competition and two, he had too much ground to cover and taverns to frequent.

It took practice and a comfortable amount of insolence, but he'd learned the art of making himself amiable and figuring out how to give all the right cues that he was listening raptly to boring stories and petty complaints to earn himself drinks and win an occasional customer.

Because a warm belly was a comfort when you knew your fingers were bound to turn blue before the night's end as you tromped about. And it was smart to sell to tavern keepers at a discounted price.

You had to make that known without being obvious. You sold a standard price to customers within earshot and when they asked, you looked at 'em…as if surprised that they were the tavern keeper themself, you rallied yourself up and gave them the better deal. If they called you on it, you'd say that not all keepers were as nice about letting you do business. Some tossed you right out on account of being a foreigner.

And that would bring up questions about America which he was man enough to answer candidly. His place wasn't perfect; he knew that, could handle the criticism.

And all that usually got him off on a good foot and sometimes the keeper would have a soft spot for him when they noticed him down on his luck later.

He'd get to wipe down tables and counters and whatnot for a bit of chowder and a gruff, " _it wasn't gonna keep anyway, yeh may as well have it."_

The biggest trick was slipping out before the gents insisted it was his turn to buy a round.

Which wasn't good Samaritanism at work, but a sound strategy for his light purse.

He continued on his way when he felt his cheeks flush and his smile grow lighter on his face. Yes, he was no longer as surefooted as he'd been an hour earlier but he needed that liquid boost of cheer.

As he went to the seediest spots near the docks, a pair of wagtails flashed him their wares and demanded cigarettes in return.

He laughed and flapped the bottom ends of his coat back at them in kind—shaking his shoulders as they had done and making the packs in his vending box rattle.

"A look for a look," he barked back with the same harshness. "I peddle my wares same as you. The very same! And I take the same currency too!"

They all had a good cackle at that til the watchman sneered at the lot of them. The women decided he and his high and mighty mood and his huge mustache was good sport and tested his temper if not his morals by going after him.

Alfred stationed himself by a ragged match girl and eventually the two of them settled on the stoop of a rough-looking tenant house and Alfred draped his cloak over their laps as a makeshift blanket.

This was his nightly pattern for the next few days until he finally just gave the child his cloak...because it bothered him to see her leave in the early hours for her home.

Because she was a slip of a thing...going blue from cold...and the only breadwinner of her household.

Because she was nine and lisped through the gaps of her teeth. She couldn't read and her parents were dead and her grandfather was sick and bedridden but her brother was a sailor and maybe he'd come back to them this year in the spring. Maybe this year was the lucky year she'd been waiting for? She was praying hard for it.

His cloak was no prize now but it had been fine once when Hancock first presented it to him. It was still good against a cold winter and they had a cold winter's start now...with the promise of a deadly winter's end later. And he didn't want that rosebud's bloom cut short by frost; she had to make it to spring. Maybe her brother _**would** _come back? Miracles could happen anywhere and for anyone, right?

However, no good deed went unpunished.

And she was the reason Scotland and Ireland found him.

They'd recognized the cloak and she led them straight to him.

Apparently, Ireland fed her some lie that America was a lost prince that had run afoul of a witch and she gaily informed them all that she'd found him!

"And now yeh get to go back to yer castle, m'lord!" she exclaimed.

And he didn't dare argue with her when she seemed so happy.

In return for her aid, Scotland bought out her wares and then some and overcome she sprinted for the apothecary and then to home...though not before scolding America to take care and be wary of witches.

"That's a lot of matches," Alfred murmured at the great heap in his uncle's arms.

"Ach, I might as well. I'm about to have a hell of a lot of cigarettes." He set the pile onto Alfred's box.

Alfred gave a ridiculous price, triple what his amount was worth even for his top-paying customers, because his Scottish uncle was a spendthrift and it had probably galled him to have bought out the girl's stock and irked him to do the same for Alfred.

Reilley whistled and read off the box, " _Best in the land, so have one in hand._ They'd better be the best for such a cost as that."

Alfred had it in his mind that if the price was high enough, Alistair would scoff and send him on his way, and he'd be left alone to rot wherever he pleased.

He got a very hard look and then his uncle counted out the amount.

Alfred felt his stomach flop, "You don't have to-"

"You're dead set on not returning to the castle. Huh, laddie?"

He raised his chin defiantly. "...yes."

Reilley pulled his scarf off and wrapped it around Alfred.

The warmth was welcome.

"Would it matter if King Idgit-land wanted Princeykins back?" Reilley waggled his eyebrows.

"Did he send you?" he blurted.

"No," Alistair replied bluntly, holding his gaze.

Reilley's expression twitched with annoyance, apparently he'd been planning on spinning two yarns that night: one for the girl and one for Alfred.

Of course not. Was probably relieved he was gone.

Wanted him back...

That would really be a fairytale.

Damnation...really now…

He glared at the Irishman.

Tricking him like that.

"But I don't think he'd...bar you from...returning," Reilley tried to smile as he gave gave Alfred an awkward hug and complained for him that he was freezing. "Your fingers are gonna fall off. Hell, _**more**_ , if you know what I mean, could fall off if you don't take care."

Alfred rolled his eyes, his Irish uncle was always so lewd, he opened his mouth to retort but coughed instead.

The two redheads exchanged serious looks.

He broke away from Reilley's hold.

"I just caught cold is all. A few days and it'll be gone. Some sleep is all I need."

Alistair looked like he wanted to chew him out but said instead, "For God's sake or mine, if yeh give a damn about me, you get better accommodations. I know you're somewhere Godawful. Get out. Tonight. And I don't catch you here in East End again, yeh follow me?"

Alfred sulked and looked away.

Alistair gripped his chin and forced him to look him in the eye. "You understand me, laddie?"

"Yes, Alistair."

He got a hard clip on the ear.

Reilley kept the blow from knocking Alfred over.

"Tha's Uncle Al and you know better," the Scotsman growled.

Alfred pulled the vendor's box off and set it down and leaned into the man.

Alistair gave him a spine-cracking hug and told him gruffly,"You change your mind, yeh send for me. I'll come get ya."

"He doesn't want me there."

" _ **I**_ want you there. When that gets through your skull, send for me." He then handed him an invitation to the ball. "Your arse will be there."

"Or what, Uncle Al? You'll drag me there?"

"Aye."

"And I'll write a song about it."

* * *

"You found him?" Arthur tried to say it lightly. As he waited for confirmation, every muscle stiffened with tension. It was what he'd been hoping for every time they went out, announcing they needed a night at the pub. He couldn't afford to say that outright but...he'd hoped it was understood. He usually complained when they left too many nights in a row. Managing all their wards' needs could be a lot with only Rhys to rely on.

They nodded.

England poured brandy into three glasses and pushed two across his desk. Ireland immediately took his up and tipped it back. Scotland took his and studied it and then him.

"The Royal Suspension Chain Bridge in Brighton is nearing completion," he gave as an explanation for his good cheer.

Alistair refused to toast it with him.

Arthur drank his down anyway.

"No problems, I trust?" He tried not to seem over interested, though he'd been starved for news and had spent several evenings pacing until his ankle began to give him real trouble.

His servants had been unable to locate the boy and in the absence, Arthur began to fear he'd left altogether without a thought to their unconcluded business, the ball, or the meeting.

The boy could lose him himself in impulsive passions; why his storming off was proof of that.

"..."

He tried to be cool, patient, composed. But they had information he wanted. Information that could help him sleep at night without fear that Alfred was in an alley or, God forbid, a ditch.

"I said, 'No problems?' He's alright? No illness?" He was on tenterhooks. He'd been positive that Alfred was perched on the precipice of falling under some terrible infectious disease when he'd seen him last.

It was likely borne out of lingering concern for Australia's recurring bouts of whooping cough; the toddler had a special vulnerability for it.

Meanwhile, Alfred always seemed to get pneumonia. And there was something truly terrifying in watching him cough up blood.

And if it was ever compounded by consumption...

"..."

Arthur took a breath and shook his head, "He's well?"

Scotland nodded.

"Good." Arthur pulled out a book he kept for dates and details. He readied his quill. "What hotel? Just so I know."

Alistair shrugged. "He was renting a room from some ol' biddy, he'll be changing tomorrow night."

"Changing to where?"

The man shrugged again.

His frustration mounted. If only he could've sent Rhys, who was almost eerily efficient in acquiring information, but his brother was still understandably angry with the boy for their last war and wouldn't appreciate being put on any errands that pertained to him. "What good are you?"

Alistair stretched and cracked his neck. "You wanted to make sure he was still here, did yeh not? Well, he is."

"But you don't know where he'll be next?" he frowned.

"Neither does he. He's checking the rates."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have several locations in mind that are very reasonable-"

"He won't be able to afford-"

"I know the owners."

"He wouldn't accept it."

"...they would give a _**very**_ reasonable price." Arthur could pay for the room and board himself and then Alfred would just be paying for services that would include them tidying his chambers and freshening his linens. He'd still be paying so that would stave off any misgivings the boy had about receiving charity.

But Arthur would have the peace of mind of knowing precisely where he was and being able to visit him more easily.

"Where did you meet up with him?" he demanded. He'd arrange it in person if his brothers couldn't be trusted to handle it for him.

"Oooh me," Reilley shrugged. "We had a couple drinks in us already when we tripped over him."

"Tripped?" It immediately rendered visions of Alfred drunk in a gutter. "He was drunk?!"

"Huh? No, _**I**_ was drunk," Reilley asserted, "Wearing off now. Too bad. I could use another few rounds-"

"Unsurprising-"

"Now, Alis, was it Tom Cribb's pub on...no, no, no or maybe...no, O, I can't remember. So sorry 'bout that, Your Worship."

"You're both worthless," Arthur hissed.

Alistair deliberately set his glass back on the desk, undrunk, turned and left, considering his work done.

Reilley laughed and rolled his empty glass at Arthur and flounced after their older brother, singing a Gaelic drinking song as he went.

Arthur glowered after them, lips twitching into a snarl.

He set Reilley's glass back upright, reached over for Alistair's and tossed it back.

Though the alcohol only seemed to encourage the angry flames in him to rise.

Damnation, he should've just gone himself. But he hadn't wanted to venture too far. Little Tobago kept having nightmares because of that silly headless horseman story America had shared.

The American really needed to learn that just because he'd enjoyed such amusements as a child (and even then Arthur couldn't say he fully did all the time) did not mean all little ones had a desire for such tales.

If he could just wait for Christmas, America could hear and share all the ghost stories he wanted with likeminded people.

What especially bothered England, was he still hadn't learnt how Alfred had slipped into the nursery with nobody seeing him do so. The governess slept in the adjoining room and was none-the-wiser of his visits. He might have to replace her if she wasn't vigilant. What if that had been a robber or worse? Sneaking among his babes?

He was reluctant to press Tobago for more information as he'd already been singled out as England's informant (his nightmares had prompted the child to share the source and Alfred's part was revealed) and despite England's scoldings to the rest that he wouldn't tolerate cruelty among them, Tobago was being given the cold shoulder.

It was largely the result of there being a horrible, ridiculous rumor circulating that their colonizer had turned America out on account of him terrorizing the colonies with that _Legend_ of something or other.

Said colonies thus blamed the only terrorized one among them.

His poor little Tobago.

He'd tried to explain to them all that America was a grown up nation (yes, he couldn't even convince himself on that point) and that he was welcome to stay wherever he chose provided he followed the rules of that place.

He'd gotten skeptical looks...which pained him…

Because he thought of himself in much kinder terms…

He'd lost his temper yes but...he hadn't thrown the boy out. He had trouble forcing cats and dogs outside even when they were misbehaving, he could never…

Not one of his children...no matter how strained their relationship was.

It was an empty threat. Surely, that was obvious?

No, it wasn't.

More days passed without him knowing where the boy was staying.

He came upon two maids folding linens.

"Threw him out in the rain, I hear-"

"Aye, that Spanish one saw him to the gate and then off 'e went. Disappeared into the woods and was never seen again. I think the wolves got 'im."

Each retelling had Alfred fall prey to something new and terrible.

"-a run in with the red caps."

"-captured by gypsies."

"-murdered by highwaymen."

It all fed his paranoia.

It only got worse when Reilley got a hold of the tale and embellished it.

Arthur nearly lost his temper completely as he overheard his Irish brother telling a scullery maid, "O and he raged at him something awful and fierce and chased him into the forest like a great bushy-browed hellhound snapping at his heels."

"'Ow 'orrible. Don't ever think I seen the Admiral behave so-"

"O aye, very sad. And now the poor boy, wanderin' round threadbare among the gypsies and the drunks-"

The woman frowned, "I heard that the fae-"

"You know, after he was tired from dancin' barefoot with the fae in the gutters-"

"My mam always warned me the UnSeelies are out in winter and they'll dance you dead they will-"

"You and me both, Missy. But what else could he do when all his moneys was stolen by a gang of highwaymen? Yup, he does what he pleases for he's caught his death on the streets of East End with matchgirls and slatterns."

"He fell so low so fast?"

Arthur shuddered and made himself visible which scared off the young woman and made Ireland's usual, brash grin falter.

Because all that was nothing to joke about.

He glared and bared his teeth.

Reilley dismissed himself and stayed out of reach as he passed him in the hall.

There was nothing funny at all about imagining Alfred in that area; it was dangerous. It was unclean. Disease ran rampant there. It was no place for his Alfred.

And it wasn't until he'd been assured several times over by spies, he wasn't supposed to employ for such selfish ends, that Alfred was nowhere in that vicinity but in West End in a quaint hotel, that was rundown but relatively safe, that he was able to breathe again.

Damn Reilley's streak of cruelty, hurting him with such awful imaginings.

The only thing that worked at unknotting the anxiety was daydreaming as he waited for sleep at the end of the day.

He went through various ways he'd relay the absurdities to Alfred, trying to be at his utmost clever as he went through all the scenarios with the right turns of phrase. And doing his best to mimic dialects he'd overheard.

Alfred liked to laugh.

He laughed easily. He was a nervous jokester's friend. A performer could depend on him for support in a crowd. It sometimes annoyed him that Alfred didn't make them work for it.

Alfred laughed inanely for anyone who made an effort...but he laughed best when someone was actually clever.

Arthur tried to envision hot tea and coffee and a merry fire in the hearth. They'd have a good laugh and then maybe he could segue into how that hotel still wasn't where Arthur wanted him, but after the ball…they could see to—

His eyelids drooped as his breaths evened out.

" _-don't really have anything suitable for the ball," Alfred replied, gesturing to his clothes._

" _You're a regular fairytale."_

 _The boy gave him a sour look._

" _Now, now, it's alright. I suppose I can play fairy godmother or was it a wishing tree? I'll have to clarify that with the frog. It's too late now to order you a suit, but I'm sure you can borrow one of Reilley's. We'll have a royal tailor fit it to you. That can be handled in an afternoon."_

" _He wouldn't mind the back and forth? Fetching the suit, then coming to me for measurements, then heading back-"_

" _You're right, he is getting older. Tailor's bunions. It would be much easier if you simply stayed at the palace, save him the trip-"_

 _And then winter would hit and it would be folly to try and sail in such weather. Arthur could then make use of Alfred's funds dwindling and insist he stay indefinitely at the castle for practicality's sake as well as sentimentality; no one ought to spend Christmas alone._

 _And maybe…_

 _With the right atmosphere, with the right circumstances…_

 _They might begin to reconcile._

 _And all the family would pile into the private rooms of his personal wing for gifts and heated punch and cider._

Mornings were stark after dreams like that.

Preparations for the ball continued.

Malta came down with a fever and England never got to pay a visit to America and assist him in matters of fashion.

As a compromise, he vowed that he would be pleasant to Alfred at the ball; wouldn't comment on his state of dress at all. Would curb the talk of others who did. Wouldn't pursue the subjects that had led them into quarrelling.

No, he'd be amiable. And while he couldn't spend the entirety of the night watching over him (there was too much he needed to do for business and diplomacy), he'd make it a point to indulge America's agricultural interests, dull as they often were when they crept into conversation.

And when the night wore on, he would give the boy a place to stay; he'd make that room he'd allotted for America more comfortable. It would send every tongue waggling if he purchased new furnishings with Alfred in mind, but...there was nothing to it if he simply moved some of his own things there and bought replacements for himself. If pressed, he'd say there was a scratch or something and if necessary, though he doubted it would be, could scrape some paint off a back corner to legitimize his actions.

Once he was moved in, Arthur would have his things fetched that night.

It was a bold idea but...too much time had been lost for him to play subtle now.

He was going to fix this.

He was going to prove that such rumors were unfounded.

It was going to be a good night.

He caught his reflection's eye in an ornate mirror as festive banners were hoisted up and stacks of fine china were carried in and counted.

He repeated to himself aloud like a ward against evil, "It is going to be a good night."

* * *

 **Read & Review Please : D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Swan was a delicacy of the upper classes (which fell out later in the Victorian Era) and now is largely illegal in the U.K. Some U.S. states have hunting seasons for them though (they can over breed and harm ecosystems). Apparently, a lot of the larger bird hunting in the U.K./Europe stopped because of the turkey (via the Columbian Exchange). It was a larger, meatier bird. I also theorize that...as it was not majestic looking and ornery people went: "I don't feel guilty eating that feathery jerk." And in the U.S., they're flipping everywhere and do not endear themselves. They will scratch up/dent your car by standing on it, tear up your lawn, muck up your roof (and creep you out by stomping around up there at 2 am), they stand as a group in the middle of the road and they're pretty dumb and stubborn as a rule (You have to get unnervingly close with a broom to clear them out of your driveway while yelling like a Tusken Raider because you don't want to run them over). Soooo...it's pretty easy for me imagining early Americans/settlers/everyone taking advantage of that.

*I've heard of fruit cocktail trees but grafting like that wasn't possible in this time era.

 **Random Author's Notes:** So I got to research Spanish and Spanish/Mexican/Texan hats (and that's not even touching on more hats below the equator). Some shout outs go to: sombrero cordobés-the Zorro hat and sombrero castoreño-El Picador hat. Now, I will be frank, the American 1812 Shako hat is...absurd (which is putting it lightly when you think of people running out to battle in it) but the sombrero calañés gives it a run for its money (I can think of no situation where I would want to be wearing it, at least the Shako makes you seem taller)...this sombrero type has to be seen, the jaunty angle just...makes me smile.

It is my opinion that one of the universal, global truths...is that no culture is without historical hat-sin. Look at the Welsh (cough Mother Goose) and that stovepipe hat. If you've seen a historical hat that made you go, 'Lol,' or, even better, if you're from a nation with a hat that gives you shame...mention it in your review. I will work in the bestcoughworst ones into my fics.

 _Jarabe Tapatío_ , aka the Mexican Hat Dance, was not just a dance but a political statement in the time leading up to the Mexican War of Independence since it used mixed couples (a male and female) and was seen as a challenge to Spain's authority and morally offensive.

Anyways, thank you for your reviews and I hope you enjoy this chapter! : D

 **Chapter 5: Ghosts**

* * *

From a safe distance, Tejas glared across the room at his host, knowing full well he was far enough away that his words of condemnation wouldn't cause him immediate trouble.

"Inglaterra, tu fiesta apesta," Tejas groused to Philippe who's expression twitched to let him know that he was being very rude to say that within earshot of other guests...but his servant didn't dare scold him aloud.

It was not a lie, there were enough people in the space that the smell of bodies, sweat, smoke, powders, and perfume was strong and it didn't merge sweetly with all the garlands and floral scents of the decorations let alone the heaver smells of food.

Knowing he needed to try to socialize (despite enduring several outright rejections and three polite, if shallow, conversations that disbanded almost as soon as they began), he made another turn about the room.

There were dishes he'd never seen before and grander main courses than he'd ever known.

Roasted swans in pairs served as centerpieces along the great banquet table, their necks forming hearts.

Silver and gold platters were laden down with food that made his mouth water. But no one was eating yet, so he couldn't indulge. And Mejico would kill him if he dirtied his charro suit before their dance.

So he made his introductions to Austria, whom he'd heard complaints and compliments about from Papi, but who had never made a trip into Tejas's region to meet him.

He was very serious and didn't smile and Tejas felt more and more ill at ease as the conversation dragged.

It wasn't that he was cruel...just...thoroughly disinterested…

But then...nobody was ever that interested in him…

Tejas was not a sovereign nation and therefore...beneath notice...they weren't going to need him as an ally or tradespartner...and he just wasn't...diverting enough to draw others to him with a talent.

Plus, it had been rather dumb on his part to imagine that spectacles could act as a sign of a kindred spirit.

He and Austria had nothing in common. Which was a shame, he'd...been curious if his personality differences (in comparison to his siblings and father) were the result of the Austrian nation's influence on account of the House of Habsburg.

Tch.

It was going to be a tedious evening wandering around without anyone to really talk to. He'd already made four laps around the room to look at it and entertain himself; the architecture and decorations weren't fascinating enough to warrant two more.

It almost made him seek out Paraguay, Colombia and Venezuela who were near the orchestra...though they'd likely harass him...all of them had managed to free themselves and become sovereign.

He was sorely tempted to test himself against them though; Tejas was older and stronger now and more likely to start holding his own in fights.

But...

Mejico would probably beat them all bloody if they dared ruin her night of introduction to the world.

And he wasn't brave enough to test his luck by traveling too near Spain, whose medals gleamed in the room's opulent lighting.

Tejas sighed. He wished he had a medal to pin on himself. Any medal. He wasn't greedy; one would suffice. Even if it was for something mundane.

It was going to be a long, horrible, boring, stuffy—

Wait…

No…

He was here!

Lingering at the edge of the ballroom unnoticed as of yet and talking to no one...

Tejas cautiously approached his fellow guest aware that there was a slight chill running down his back.

There was no doubt America was dressed in his best clothes. There were no frays and the fabric was expensive. And while it was somewhat more recent than his other clothing, it was outdated, though it cut his figure so well the years could be forgiven.

The problem was...

It was funeral wear.

And it made him blend somewhat in the shadowy corner he'd chosen.

It reminded Tejas of the beginning of " _La Belle au bois dormant,_ " Spain had brought it to him, saying it was from one of Papi's friends. While Tejas wasn't a big reader of books, he liked pictures.

It was one of the nicer things he could remember Papi doing for him. Which was ironic because it had caused him a moment of absolute terror and anxiety when he received it and realized it wasn't in Spanish.

 _A very young Tejas waited with dread in his stomach for Spain to order him to read it aloud and prove without question that Tejas was pitiful at his French lessons and deserved discipline for his poor study habits._

 _Tejas screwed up all the courage he had, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and admitted, "...I...I cannot...read it…"_

 _It had been a surprise when the man smiled instead. "No, I did not think so. Your tutors have been honest too. But I think it is a hard thing to be practicing French when you don't get to be going to their parties, huh? And considering the only French you've dealt with were the ones creeping around, maybe it is better you stay loyal to Spanish and we stop with the lessons for a while, hm?"_

 _Anything that canceled lessons was an additional holy day for Tejas._

 _He couldn't keep the smile from his face._

 _And maybe because Papi was in a good mood, he didn't stifle his curiosity: "But your friend gave it to you for_ _ **me**_ _?" He set a hand over the book's decorated binding and etching._

" _Sí, mi hijo, I think he wants to make amends...long time coming though..."_

" _With me?" Tejas looked up, not understanding precisely what the wrong had been, but privately pleased that he'd been in the middle of something and had come out on the winning side. He'd never earned some kind of tribute before._

 _Spain raised an eyebrow and his mouth twitched and then he nodded, "Yes, Toni. With you."_

 _Tejas' looked at him without comprehending the sarcasm then but shrugged and said loudly and magnanimously, "_ _ **I**_ _forgive him."_

" _What a good Christian you are, Toni," Spain grinned and snickered. He picked Tejas up and spun him, and they both laughed._

 _Spain carried him over to a chair by the fireplace and Tejas was settled on his lap. "Okay, okay, okay, here, Boss will make a deal with you."_

 _Tejas straightened up._

" _I read the story to you. You look at the pictures."_

" _I can do that," Tejas replied with complete confidence and he shook hands on it which made Papi laugh._

 _That story...at its beginning...warned of a fairy who'd been overlooked…_

 _And Tejas had pored over that illustration. All the good characters were surrounding a crib happy for the baby and the king and the queen. They wore fancy clothing and jewels and draperies. At the far side of the drawing, small and far away with clothes half lost to darkness and the only face unsmiling, was the near-forgotten fairy in a shadowy corner; the dark blot on their happiness._

 _He'd pestered Papi a few days after he'd first heard the tale over why the fairy hadn't been invited._

 _As far as he could see it, that was where the king and queen had been dumb._

 _Saying that made Spain stare in shock and scold him for the blasphemy, no monarch, even fictitious, deserved such talk._

" _But it's their fault!" Tejas argued, surprising himself with his insolence. "Don't they dictate who's invited and who's not? Why didn't they invite her? Everything would have been fixed-"_

" _Yes, but you wouldn't have had much of a story."_

" _But! But!"_

 _The first few days, Spain humored him—using the book as evidence._

 _She was old; they thought she was dead._

 _She wasn't nice. See how they call her 'evil'? She cursed a baby. That's not nice._

" _But lots of people who are not nice get invited to_ _ **our**_ _casa for parties."_

 _Which made Spain scowl. "I think that is enough, Toni. It is just a silly story."_

 _Tejas didn't let it go and entered his father's office as the man sat, looking over boring papers; he was sure his question was more important or at least more interesting. "If there was a fairy who was powerful enough to curse your baby and petty enough to do it...why wouldn't you check to see if she was alive or not? Seems important to know...to me."_

 _His father finally shrugged in exasperation and threw his hands up as if in surrender."I don't know, Toni! Maybe they never knew how powerful she was."_

 _Which was fascinating. One, for anyone to be so powerful...and for it to be a secret…_

 _And two, proof that Papi didn't know everything..._

Tejas felt a thrill of excitement and made to move towards America, but Philippe was suddenly in front of him.

"Maybe...it is a night for making other new friends, Señor?"

Tejas stared and then pushed past him.

It was kind of a relief knowing he wasn't the only one dressed oddly at this event. His suit seemed downright bizarre with its bright silver trimming and red sash.

"Mourning the lack of fun?" Tejas asked, leaning against the wall and knowing it was a poor joke but hopeful it would still fulfil its purpose and entertain.

Alfred gave a sharp smile. "Heh, well, you know someone's always dying somewhere. I like to be practical _**and**_ fashionable."

"I like to be garish," Tejas smiled.

Alfred laughed again, "Good evening to you, Texas," and he nodded "Philippe."

"Good evening, Señor," Philippe greeted stiffly, panting slightly from the effort of having to keep up with his young master.

Alfred turned back to Tejas. "Everything as you hoped it would be?"

"I am in a suit I hate, I am here with Mejico, the cord of my hat is strangling me, it is very boring here, and no one thinks me worthy of talking to...besides you."

"Hmm, and there is the added disadvantage that it is _me_ ," America tisked. "Accompanying me for the evening isn't going to elevate you in the esteem of _these_ social circles. I'm quite disreputable you know?"

"Proud of it too, I see. A badge?"

"Naturally…" he smothered a cough into his sleeve.

Tex sighed, "...they do not even look at me..." He scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor. An action which made Philippe frown; he'd gone to a lot of trouble polishing them up nicely.

Alfred toyed with the tassel of a large curtain tied to a pillar.

Blue eyes locked on brown. "I can get them to look at us...if that's what you want."

"What good would that be? They will sneer at us…"

Alfred's smile turned wicked, "Aha, so you want them to envy us, do you?"

Tejas felt himself flush because...it wasn't a very honorable thing to desire.

"Well?"

And there was something in those defiant eyes that prompted him to confess: "Yes."

"I can manage it," Alfred replied, all confidence.

"Truly?" Tejas asked doubtfully.

"You'll have to do your part, though. It's a big request. Here, come closer."

Curious in spite of himself, he obeyed.

Alfred's eyes shined with mischief, "Good. Now, we'll both lean in while we walk like we're in one another's confidence. Which more or less we are. We're plotting, aren't we?"

"Yes, I suppose." Tejas mimicked the other's low tones.

"Gooood. Now, look out at them around us, but continue to talk under your breath with me. What say you of Lady Hungary's dress?"

"Don't know how she sits in it."

"And Lord Worthington's face?"

"Unfortunate," Tex felt a smile stretch his face as he answered.

"Sweden?"

"Sweden?"

"The tall, scary one. Over there."

"Eep."

"I know! He was a viking or so I've been told. So maybe it's that. Only Denmark is far more friendly...or mayhaps I'm confusing that with being talkative."

"Can he keep up with you?"

Alfred gave him a side glance and then grinned, "Almost. Now, pause here with me under the chandelier and smile and nod. Yes, once more."

Tejas snickered at the stupid instructions.

"You're simply superb. Now, on three we're both going to laugh. As loudly and inanely as we wish. One, two, three! Hahahahahaha!"

"Bahahahahahahaha!" Tejas clapped his hands and waggled a finger at Alfred in a teasing scold.

Alfred gripped Tejas' arm like he was having trouble standing because he was so full of mirth and leaned back in. "Are you pleased now?"

Sure enough, there were eyes on them. Hard eyes. Envious eyes.

"What you must remember, Tex, is this." Blue eyes glittered like ice. "They. Have. Everything. Everything in the world is theirs….they're _**still**_ unhappy."

"So being happy is revenge."

America nodded with malicious glee.

"You are clever, mi amigo."

And mean...and yet...Tejas wasn't put off.

"Enjoying yourselves, I see?" Scotland asked.

"More like hear," Ireland clarified.

"Tex is just such a wit," America commended.

Tejas elbowed him for the blatant lie.

And America laughed more genuinely though it triggered a fit of coughing more concerning than what Tejas had heard earlier.

An elegant blond man sauntered up.

France? Maybe? He wrinkled his nose and gave America a wider berth than was strictly necessary.

"You've grown up," Francis appraised looking Tejas up and down. "I believe your sister needs you."

Sure enough she was sweeping towards him, mildly peeved that he hadn't been within grabbing distance.

Tejas sighed, "Sí, we have a dance to do." He leaned over to tell Alfred. "Here's your chance for food like you said."

He profferred his arm to Mejico and she took it smilingly, though she warned through a corner of her mouth, "You better not crush my feet this time in front of everyone, you clumsy oaf."

He wasn't clumsy.

But it was probably best she didn't figure that out.

He motioned with his shoulder to where Spain was standing with Puerto Rico and Cuba flanking him.

"You are welcome to risk your feet with others."

She sniffed and ignored him, at least until they reached the center of the ballroom.

"I cannot believe you're making friends with America," she said under her breath. "Stupid birds of a feather? Yes?"

The spectators formed a ring around them, but left plenty of room.

England made a show of them, talking up their "foreign" origins to make them seem exotic.

They took up their places and he set his black sombrero onto his head.

Azura's advisors, who were fair musicians themselves, stood ready to lead the room's orchestra. They'd been practicing with the group for the past several nights to get it perfecto...and Tejas and Mejico had been practicing for months. Almost as soon as she got the stupid invite.

She addressed the crowd and curtsied.

Which he followed with a short bow.

Mejico smiled widely, "It gives me joy to show you a dance of my land and my people."

There was more that came before that but that was the cue he'd learnt to wait for and he immediately straightened up at hearing it.

At Mejico's nod of authority, the orchestra began playing.

 _El_ _Jarabe Tapatío_ was supposed to pantomime courtship, which would've seemed...wrong because they were siblings but he was always her first pick of dance partners because his hands NEVER wandered. EVER.

EVER.

And because it served dual motives for her; one, it kept men from bothering her for several dances at least (they always seemed to think they could woo her into a better trade agreement). Two, it kept Tex from dancing with beautiful women.

Which was a shame because he was finally old enough and tall enough to start really getting attention.

He resisted fidgeting. He just hated wearing the sombrero.

He hated top hats more of course, but sombreros like this…

Wide and floppy and hard to keep on his head while he danced with his arms in position behind his back.

And he always thought the dance was a weird story: where a man, who's only valuable possession is the sombrero, lays his prized possession at a señorita's feet to woo her.

For Texas, throwing the hat down was a means of venting how much he hated it.

Wear it too little and you got burnt, wear it too much and it got his hair all sweaty and oily.

He glanced out into the crowd.

Mejico was getting most of the attention with her twirling skirts. The woman's part in this dance was just more interesting. And he was resigned to letting her upstage him (this was her big moment).

But then he noticed Alfred watching him instead, eyes following the rhythmic stomps Tejas made. The American's body was bouncing lightly with the beat of the music and his expression seemed exhilarated.

The blond looked up and their eyes met and Alfred grinned, elbowed the viewer next to him, pointed to Tejas and spoke excitedly.

And it did not seem right that Alfred was bragging about him when Tejas was just going through steps.

No.

No...he would give him something to brag about.

He did his best, moving his legs and feet with grace and purpose, spinning fluidly rather than mechanically because the music was music again in his ears rather than beats and counts.

Which put Mejico on the defensive since she was always competitive. And that glint of fear in her eye that he could be a rival to her, and the whole world was seeing it, sent a thrill through him. Because yes. It was what he wanted most: to be a strong, independent nation. And it never seemed so close as it did right now!

Cheers began to arise from the crowd and Tejas got showier which forced Mejico to more extravagance to keep up.

Still, it was almost fun and the fact that he could see Spain watching from the sidelines gave him another boost of confidence; he had his attention!

Unfortunately, making a good impression required fighting down his strong desire to kick his sister during the final leg sweep at the end.

He barely resisted.

She picked up his hat, spun around with it, and set it on his head.

And the ballroom cheered and applauded them.

He took his host's compliments along with pats on the back from various guests which all took longer than he liked and he could only half-translate a lot of what was said. He wondered idly if his English was as hard to understand as some of the other non-native speakers. If it was, he'd have to give Alfred more credit for understanding him.

Austria seemed a bit more interested in him now, but he didn't care.

There were really only two viewers whose praise he wanted.

He had to go now before his hermana's nagging voice and his own doubts pulled him down and convinced him to stay out of the older man's way.

With victory still flushing his cheeks, Tejas approached Spain who'd retired from the crowd in favor of sitting in a corner table with two men.

It was going to be different this time.

Here…

He was _here..._ on the world stage and this time Spain would see he was a man now. Or at least...becoming one. He was a territory with ambitions! A Carriedo through and through!

Which meant he was capable and deserving of notice like he hadn't been before.

Resentment dipped in favor of a dangerous, wild hope. Because seeing his father's face after so much time made the bad memories pale and his own list of warnings faded because….

They'd also had some good times. Hadn't they? He might not have been his father's favorite but...he'd never been truly hated.

"Uh...um...H-hola, Señor," he greeted a bit breathlessly.

Spain...did nothing. Just stared at him blankly.

Like he was no one...nothing.

He wasn't even memorable enough to be hated.

"One of yours?" A white haired, red eyed man asked and elbowed Spain who continued to blink at Tejas without recognition in his gaze.

"Sí, eso creo," the Spaniard shrugged took a swig of a decanter.

"Herzliche glückwunsche zur geburt!," the albino snickered.

"Prussia," Spain burst out laughing and gave him a light shove in response and the two began chatting, Tejas was already forgotten.

"Bonsoir, beau garçonne," the blonde man, it _had_ to be France, winked and blew the colony a kiss.

Ugh, he must've been slobbering drunk.

He turned back to his former colonizer and cleared his throat.

Antonio's face twitched a bit in annoyance at being interrupted and he released a heavy breath through his nose.

But he was holding back his temper. He was letting him speak.

It had to be a good sign. Right?

Tejas gathered his courage even as his stomach began to fall. "P-papi, do you...you have anything to say to me? After...after all of this time? I...I traveled a long ways...f-first time I...the sea was...the trip...I had hoped to...to see you…" He took a shaky breath and said something he shouldn't have. Something that was too soft for a hard man like his father to appreciate. "Me hiciste falta."

Because it had to be returned. Surely, after so much time apart his father had to have felt his absence...at least a little? He couldn't still be angry? Regardless of whose side he'd chosen in a time of war?

And he wasn't stupid. He knew most of his news was filtered through Mejico. That her reign wasn't as stable as she said. It would be good to have a different perspective.

It could very well be that Spain had wanted to see him sooner and Mejico wouldn't let him. But now that Tejas was getting stronger…

He could decide for himself who could and couldn't be in his lands. Her rules be damned.

Spain took another drink and swallowed.

The man was bored and tired and annoyed and it showed in the tone. "Papi is with his friends." He waved his hand in a dismissal that was too familiar. "You go now."

It was a dismissal he'd gotten as a child whenever his father was too tired, too frustrated, too drunk to be bothered.

But Papi hadn't seen him in _years_.

In years.

And he didn't even merit a bland ¿hola?

His mouth trembled.

But instead of bursting into tears, and really reverting them to Tejas's childhood days (where he'd been coined a crybaby), everything boiled and hissed to the surface. Through a haze of red, he snatched the bottle out of his father's hold and for a moment wondered whether to smash it over his head or splash it in his face or scream at him and throw it and let it shatter.

Antonio snarled at him and the drunk men with him snickered at his slow reflexes. They chuckled that Spain was getting old if his pup could outmaneuver him.

"Tejas!" he hissed as he stood on shaky legs.

Look who remembered him now, hmm?

"Unbelievable. And after what you pulled this night?! With her, you dare...you _**dare**_ come before me now and expect-expect...What is it, Toni? What you want? Speak!"

Tch.

He felt a strong desire to make the biggest scene he could. To hell with what Mejico wanted! To hell with Spain!

Green eyes made a quick harsh study of him and then the Spaniard sat back down. He blew out an exasperated breath. Something like disgust and impatience flitted over his face. "Dios, you cry about everything. I try to have one night to enjoy myself but noooo-"

And yes, Tejas's vision was blurring by this point.

But he didn't miss the table and his voice didn't get choked up as he stated clearly and coldly, "The fault is mine. Forgive me, España. I wouldn't _**dare**_ come between you and what you love _most_." He set the decanter down and the table rattled.

He heard the screech of a chair and half-hoped to be punched so he'd get a chance to retaliate (even though he knew he wasn't trained near well enough to do any real damage. Still, from the amount of schoolyard scrapes he'd been in he was certain he could get one good punch in and be content with that).

But no one stopped him...and he felt almost worse for the lack of violence.

Because...now...the long silence of distance that had been between them entered a new more final tone of quiet.

He would never have his father's attention let alone his respect...and he didn't care anymore.

Spain might not have been a great man or a good father but…

He'd been a general...a warrior...a conquistador…

Someone of strength who was impressive and intimidating and who a younger Tejas had always looked up to as the sun glinted on the man's armor and weaponry. Like he stepped out from between lyrics of a ballad or from the pages of an epic tale—

That man was a drunk.

Who couldn't even remember his own son's name.

He was…

Tejas swallowed against a lump in his throat.

...a drunk.

His esteem wasn't worth having.

And finally seeing that and acknowledging it made him discouraged in a way unknown to him before.

The world didn't make sense anymore.

He walked out through double doors leading outside.

And that was when he caught verses on the breeze and recognized the voice emanating from the garden.

Despite, his racing heart and downtrodden spirit, he smiled.

He knew who was singing...singing like a sirena.

The Greek kind, he amended.

And it sure was funny to think of one of them sinking ships because they weren't very good at music and maybe that infuriated the sailors into approaching them rather than that they were bewitched.

Still, he found himself moving towards him anyway and he laughed, "America, you sirena-"

"Ja, like a siren," another agreed stepping out after him.

Prussia.

Prussia had followed him out rather than…

It rubbed more salt into the wound and something damn near venomous coiled in his chest.

"... be wary of America, Tejas. Greater nations and men than you have been dashed on his rocks."

"I don't visit him by sea," Tejas retorted simply. Always rode. Always.

Red eyes blinked and the Prussian snapped, "That's not what I meant, dummkopf!" The albino gripped his arm, "Look, I know America. I am a friend of his but I have been a friend of your Papi's for longer. So I _**have**_ to say this. For _him_. For you. You don't know how strong America is and sometimes he forgets. A gentle giant is _still_ a giant...and he's not gentle anymore. Be caref-"

Whatever more he had to say, Tejas didn't stay and listen. He jerked his arm out of the other's hold and dashed to the garden.

To hell with manners and old nations and all their dramatic warnings.

All so focused on Alfred and his dangers…

As if Tejas harbored no dangers himself…

He wasn't invited himself you know...not really. The invitation to this ball was always for Mejico...not for him.

Alfred needed to share that corner.

* * *

Alfred was rather pleased with the new verses he'd fashioned for _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ while laying down on a stone bench contemplating the night sky _._

"Sing a song of conquest

Of power thirsty deed.

Sing a song of conquest

Of arrogance and greed;

Of snobbish dances,

Furtive glances,

Envy from your right.

May your love of gold be comfort this night,

Comfort this night!

May your love of gold be comfort this night!"

"Bravo, mi amigo!" Texas clapped.

Alfred laughed and coughed at turns as he sat up.

"Texas. Dancer of the hour. You were a quite triumph. Quite. You'll have no shortage of partners and admirers now I'm sure."

"...gracias…"

The toneless reply prompted him to better scrutinize his companion.

"What's wrong, poor fellow?"

It was probably a poor choice of question on his part. Because often when one asked such things, they didn't actually intend you to open up and tell them the source of your woes. It was meant to be batted away with a careless grumble of 'Bad weather' or 'Horse spooked' and then the asker would 'hmm' in shallow sympathy and the conversation would float along never snagging on anything of consequence.

That way meetings could always stay pleasant.

But Texas was not a native English speaker and he didn't know those niceties. That those polite inquiries were merely greetings.

And while America did have something of more genuine concern veiled beneath it, he wasn't volunteering himself as a confidant. He issued it as a warning that Texas was still in a public place and it was dangerous to be vulnerable here. Other nations and humans of consequence could exploit it.

Again, such things went over the other's head. Texas didn't mince words while sharing his father's rejection of him and his opinion on that. It rang too similarly to America's own misfortunes for him not to draw parallels.

However, it was the compliment Texas chose to award Alfred at the end of his sorrowful soliloquy (Alfred really couldn't get a word edgewise in) that proved most painful to hear.

That there was something freeing in being around someone who didn't expect you to be anything and wasn't disappointed with you for being what you were.

At least that was the gist of it.

And the man was right.

Alfred didn't give comfort. He gave acceptance.

He wished he could give both. But an apple tree couldn't give oranges.

So all he could do was agree.

Yes, he knew that pain.

Yes, it was a terrible circumstance to be caught in.

Yes, he admitted, they were the ghosts of their father's mistakes, and they haunted them best by appearing in public venues.

Naturally, they were to be shunned or exorcised if possible.

The extended metaphor made Texas cry harder and Alfred clumsily tried to find a means to pacify him.

Perhaps it was because he was more observant than he cared to admit, or because he was a ruthless salesman by now and had profited from the knowledge; he knew pleasure and pain were nearer relatives than one might think.

If no one in the world were miserable, taverns would suffer.

"Poor Texas, I think a drink and a smoke might set you to rights. And I am in the happy position of being able to offer you both."

He gestured to the bottle he'd nicked from the feast that stood near his feet. He then pulled out a sample pack of cigarettes he typically used to entice gentleman at clubs to order some of his wares.

Texas sniffled and looked down at the proffered pack. "Oh...I...don't-"

"Don't smoke? That's alright," he cheerfully moved to return it to its spot (waste not, want not) but Texas grabbed his arm.

The brunet hastily replied, "I...I am not opposed as you say. I just have not tried before."

"Oh," Alfred gave a forced laugh. "Well, if you've never smoked. I can't say it will be too enjoyable. Quite a bit of coughing involved."

"I cannot sound worse than you."

Alfred fidgeted with the pack in his hands. "Well, by all means. If you are dead set on having your way-"

"I am." Texas took the sample pack from him. "It will be the only thing I get to choose tonight...that is really…just for me...my choice."

Alfred faltered.

It felt like...a mistake to let this unfold. "..."

But who was he to infringe on another's free will?

"Have you a match?" Texas asked.

Naturally. He always carried far more than he needed.

Still, he felt rather numb as he lit one and cupped his hand to shield the flame from the wind.

"Do try to take light puffs at first," he advised. Decades of giving such instructions made it leave him so easily it could almost seem unrehearsed.

He tried to ignore the uneasy rolling of his stomach as his nose picked up the smell.

Learning to embrace the smell had been vital. One had to stop smelling it for what it was and start smelling it for what it meant: revenue. Livelihood. Business.

Tejas was a quick learner. A natural. He only coughed a few times as he adjusted to the habit.

Alfred watched the man nod approvingly.

"You are a farmer of this?" He asked in a far more relaxed tone.

"Yes."

Texas admired the product and murmured. "This is what is growing around your casa?"

"...yes."

"And you can have this all the time?"

Alfred laughed shortly, "There's the seasons and the drying and storing of it to consider. And of course the profit."

Texas laughed more easily, "Yes. Your mind is always on profit. Eh, America?"

His brown eyes were sharp. Alfred couldn't help but feel like he'd been seen a little too clearly.

"Well, I dare say you've satisfied your curiosity and now-" Alfred reached for it, intending to endure a few drags, maybe blow smoke through his nose because that trick always entertained, and then to crush it underfoot and mourn the waste of it on the morrow.

Texas leaned away. "No. I like how it feels."

"..."

"There is a warmth in it."

"..."

"It is so cold here but," he held up the cigarette and reached for the bottle of bourbon and took a swig, coughing and laughing at the strength of it. "I will take warmth where I can, yes?"

"..."

"Like you?" He took another sip.

And he knew then, he had a new customer. One that would last the ages.

And wasn't that a boon? Yet another nation with a craving for it? Like Scotland and Ireland and England and more?

Funny, how it all didn't feel dirty until now.

"Alfredo?"

"Hmm?"

"Er, Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Vámonos."

"Sorry?"

Texas slipped an arm through his and began pulling him along.

When they were nearing the gates, he murmured, "Texas? I think you're getting turned around. Er, lost. The party is back-"

"I do not want to be here. You do not to be here. So...let us leave."

Like it was the simple answer to a problem that had been over-thought.

"Texas, there are obligations which tie us both-"

"No. There are not. ' _We do not matter to them._ ' You said so. You are right. Sooooo, if we do not matter. What matter can it be, if we stay or go? I vote 'GO.'"

Maybe it was because he said "vote." Maybe it was because this ball was a bust and leaving sounded heavenly. Maybe it was because it filled him with wonder to be figured out so easily by this near stranger and he wanted to determine for himself how clever or at least how observant Texas really was and this was a grand opportunity.

Maybe it was because Texas had a smile like wildfire and it was catching.

"Then it's settled, mi amigo!"

Amigo...amigo?

"Amigo?" Alfred repeated the foreign word tentatively.

Texas clapped a hand on his shoulder enthusiastically, "Yes?"

He answered to it...and Alfred guessed the meaning of the word and couldn't help feeling like they both fell short of deserving it.

It was too soon. Too fast. Too short-sighted.

Or maybe…he mused as they started up an impromptu game of chase and the guards sneered down at them as they passed out of the estate's gates and out into dirty streets beyond.

It was that Alfred had a dangerous relationship with hope...and he was too stupid to pass on it for what was safe and practical.

He should've focused on being a businessman and diplomat.

Instead, he wanted to be an amigo.

Wanted to at least try.

* * *

England paced before the hearth as the fire gave out to glowing embers in the early hours of the morning and dawn's light crept through the window panes.

A nervous Lovino was trying to ascertain whether Spain's remaining territories had made it to their rooms.

Because the Spaniard seemed to be suffering under a drunken delusion that he'd misplaced one and he'd been a real nuisance for the last few hours searching behind every drape and under every table before he exhausted himself. France and Prussia were bearing him up as best they could between them, but Spain was a heavy, muscular figure to support.

"Oh dear," England sighed, as if he didn't have his own troubles to attend to.

The Spaniard snatched at Arthur's sleeve when he passed, "Have you seen...mi niño? He did not come back. I know it. I waited. He...he did not come-"

"Nonsense, he returned hours ago," he lied easily, "Austria did a headcount for you. They're all accounted for."

"He-he did?!" Spain's tension eased and he gushed his thanks over and over as he sagged with relief and his friends had to compensate for all of his sudden weight.

It was painful because England was fairly certain he knew who Spain was talking about. The quiet sullen, bespectacled one who was good at cards and dancing. A former territory of his rival and Mexico's brother.

And no.

No, he didn't come back.

He wandered out past the gate and nobody stopped him. He just wasn't anyone of consequence.

And that stings more than it ought to. Texas is no ward of his...but he wasn't the only young personnification to vanish.

England has no idea where America disappeared to. Or when he left.

He'd meant to discover the boy's residence during the ball. His spirits had lifted considerably on seeing him hours earlier.

Had intended on using the occasion, the excess of alcohol, the gaiety of the festivities, the lateness of the hour to entreat him to stay.

If he could've forced some manner of apology, weak as it might've been, he could've opened his charity once more.

No, smarter still, he could have spun Alfred's absence as a matter of shame rather than arrogance that instigated his leaving. That would turn it all rather noble and Arthur could've insisted he stay.

But the boy stayed out of reach all night and hovered at the fringes...

A spectre in his ballroom. Coming in such awful dress…

But it was likely the best he had and that sobered England last night. The rebuke had died on his lips.

He sighed.

It was probably for the best he departed so soon, so silently. It allowed Arthur to better focus on his other guests. More important ones that were vital to his nation's prosperity.

Alfred was a chapter from a painful past and common sense dictated that Arthur ought to remove the bookmark…but...his heart just couldn't be persuaded.

 _Alfred led him by the hand to their favorite tree in the meadow._

 _Arthur settled down in the soft tall grasses, reclining back onto his elbows and waiting patiently to be besieged with pleas for stories._

 _Alfred sat down and looked up at the great oak's twisting branches. "It's ours, wight?"_

" _Yes."_

" _I had to bwing you here. It's the sacredest pwace I know."_

 _That was blasphemy when there was a church just down the way but he didn't feel like scolding the child on such a fine clear day._

" _So that's why I need you to pwomise here."_

 _Big blue eyes studied him seriously and Arthur felt amused._

" _Sounds important."_

 _The toddler nodded. "Gentleman's word of honor, we'll have to shake on it or something."_

" _Will we now?"_

" _Mmhmm. Because I can't write it all out yet. But I could sign my name...I guess."_

" _Goodness, this is something of great import indeed. Let us hear it."_

" _You have to love me."_

" _..."_

" _Fowever," it was mandated so solemnly..._

 _Arthur laughed as he laid back into the tall grasses. Alfred crawled over and looked down at him with such a sour expression. The man smiled tenderly—reaching a hand up and cupping Alfred's face._

"I'll love you for all of my days on this green Earth," He vowed easily to the toddler.

And it was a promise he would keep...forever.

"Do we even know where he's staying?" he asked miserably as servants went to the unenviable task of cleaning up.

"I do," Scotland replied readily eating a drumstick that had gone cold hours ago.

"Spain?" Eire asked. "Or his 'niño'?"

Scotland's hard gray eyes caught England's, "America. I know where America's lodging. I think Spain's brat left with-"

A thrill of hope lit in his breast at hearing that. His brother knew where America was. England knew too but it would've revealed too great a weakness in him to admit as much. Yes, it'd be easier to use Alistair to move forward with his plans than to go himself.

Couldn't go himself.

What would his rulers think? To know he was overjoyed at the possibility to reclaim such a disobedient child...

The boy never even spoke with him for the entirety of the night! And he was the host!

It was a horrible slight...but it could've been made in ignorance rather than malice.

"Oh?" he tried not to seem too desperate.

Scotland nodded.

"So he saw fit to make pleasantries with you, last night?"

"He did," he replied candidly.

"Will you not disclose any of your great discoveries?"

Information from Alfred himself could help him plan how best to proceed.

"..." Scotland chewed down his meal—savoring his brother's discomfort more than the meat.

"Wot?" Arthur's hands clenched. "He cannot hate my house so much that he'd turn up for so slight a temptation as a free meal. His every meal would've been provided had he stayed here as my guest."

"I imagine it was a matter of hearing," Reilley shrugged. "He didn't want to hear that from you. And he didn't want you hearing _it_ from him."

"Hear wot?"

Reilley stuttered into silence and Alistair chewed more slowly. But his pointed glare at the Irishman made Arthur's instincts sharpen to full alertness.

It was so frustrating; they would never just come out cleanly to him.

Forced him to guess.

"Didn't want me hearing what?" Arthur frowned. "Didn't want me hearing…" It couldn't have been his political views. He was always too happy and eager to share his Republican ideas.

Didn't want him to hear something...something that would reveal...jeopardize? No...alarm?

Green eyes widened, "Good God, he has a cough. Is it in the lungs? Is it deep? Could you tell?"

Scotland didn't look him in the face. "I was only with him an hour at best."

"But he was coughing?"

Reilley winced and gave a nod.

"Did he cough often?"

"A cold," Alistair shrugged.

Eire scoffed, "A cold. A cold would not have kept him off the dance floor. He only danced twice. That's why you didn't see him, Arthur. He had a nasty cough."

A _nasty_ cough.

A nasty cough was something far more sinister than a mere cough.

A mere cough could be allergies; a reaction to dust in the air or a tickle in one's throat.

A nasty cough that was so chronic as to warrant a complete removal of self to ensure another's ignorance of it meant disease.

"Was it in the lungs?" he demanded even more forcefully. "Did it sound like it was in the lungs? Pneumatic?"

* * *

Read & Review Please :DDD


End file.
